


Before You Go

by rawrkinjd



Series: Piece Me Back Together, Dear Heart [3]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Competent Jaskier | Dandelion, Established Relationship, Eventual Fluff, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Polyamory, Poor Coping, Poor Understanding of a Sub, Protective Eskel, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Recovery, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Trauma, poor communication
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-27
Updated: 2020-05-02
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:54:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 22,992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23873491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rawrkinjd/pseuds/rawrkinjd
Summary: Lambert places his trust in the wrong person, and Geralt picks up the pieces.Reader Request (BookSmartMione): What would happen if Lambert trusted the wrong person? Had a bad drop? Would Geralt be able to pull him back out? Does he trust Geralt enough?
Relationships: Eskel/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Eskel/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion/Lambert, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Lambert
Series: Piece Me Back Together, Dear Heart [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1717648
Comments: 495
Kudos: 913





	1. Hurt

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BookSmartMione](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BookSmartMione/gifts).



* * *

Lambert stretched his legs through a stream of bubbles erupting from the rocks in the centre of the spring, and dropped his head back into Keira's lap behind him, eyes sliding closed. There were some huge advantages to a casual set up with a sorceress. Fancy visiting a hot spring after sex? Up pops the fucking portal. 

He knew they were somewhere in the Blue Mountains, because when he approached the brink of the ledge he could see the grey towers of Ard Carraigh in the distance. The patchwork of early summer blooms were also a dead giveaway. Kaedwen. The edge of the world. He felt a strange affinity for its wilderness, not entirely because he spent most of his adult life traipsing around it in search of work. It hadn’t been tamed by the relentless march of humanity, with its prejudices and enclosure.

When he mixed with the elves and the dwarves, Lambert found a small sense of belonging. His feelings of otherness faded enough to be manageable, because he was amongst those that were also ‘other’. Unwelcome in the noble halls of Cintra and Temeria, spat on in the streets of Novigrad and tolerated by villagers and merchantmen only because they offered a service. Just like him.

Keira’s nails scratched over his scalp just so, and the beginnings of a purr simmered low in his chest. He pushed it back down, and made a quiet humming noise instead. "Feels good."

"Oh, I know. You're essentially just a more aggressive tabby cat." 

An eye popped open. The pupil was huge, so it took away from the glare a touch. "Gunna’ hold it over my head now, huh? Fucking great."

She chuckled and tweaked his ear. "It's adorable. A Witcher that enjoys being controlled in bed. I never thought such a thing could exist."

"Yeah, well… I'm one of a kind." Both eyes closed again as her hands worked around his face and down his neck. _Too good._

"There was never any question about that," she paused, her hands stilled. He suppressed the needy whine that he would have quite happily let escape in front of Jaskier, because the bard would instantly start the fuss again. Keira would mock him. So he sat, tapping his fingers on the rough stone at the edge of the pool, until she finally spoke, "I have this party. Just a couple of close friends. I'd like you to come along."

"Haha, very funny. In stitches."

"No. I'm being serious. Everyone will be bringing a partner," she considered the single eye that had popped open again. "Free food and drink."

"I'm in. What's the catch?"

She laughed. "You commit and then ask for the catch. Hmm, yes, logical," she smoothed a hand down his bicep. "No catch for the party. Would like to experiment with a new potion I've brewed though. I was hoping to sell it as a sex aid. It would make the after party _very_ fun."

Lambert grunted. "If you have complaints Keira, just say, for fuck's sake."

"Oh, darling. No complaints. But I have a very select market in mind. A Witcher would be a good starting point as a test. Your metabolism and immune system would be the biggest obstacle it'd ever come across."

A sigh. "Effects?"

"Should be a slow build up. Skin sensitivity. Prolonged arousal. Low inhibitions. It should enhance desires that are already there."

"Duration?"

"It would wear off by the morning."

"Side effects?"

"Minor headache, thirst and hunger, but that would mostly be from the sex."

Lambert leaned forward and ran wet hands over his face. "Fucking sex aid," he rolled his shoulder, fingers probing at the stiffness he found at the back. "And I'm not gunna'... you know, hurt anyone?"

She leaned over and ran her fingers down his back. "No. You won't hurt anyone."

"Fuck, alright… but if I start humping random furniture or some shit, I'm gunna' be pissed."

"Is that a latent desire of yours, or - ?"

Lambert stood and Keira admired the cascade of water down his back, meeting the irritated glare with a sweet smile. He rolled his eyes, "Just open the fucking portal."

***

Mages were boring. Really boring. They talked mainly about magic, Chaos and politics. _A wild fucking ride._ The other 'partners' were a meak bunch who kept casting him fearful glances, so fuck them. Lambert ploughed through several bottles of wine and half a decanter of vodka before dinner had even finished. Keira's brew didn't seem to be having any effect, and he felt pleasantly fuzzy on a rather small amount of alcohol, so there was hope for the evening yet. 

As he considered another plate of food, Keira waved at him from the end of the table. He lifted a hand back, and then realised she was actually beckoning him over. Oh shit. Small talk. _Urgh._ _Fuck._ He sucked in a breath and wandered over. They were looking at him expectantly. Four in total - two women, two men - obviously disgustingly attractive because they had sold their souls for it. _Why did he have an overwhelming need for his swords right now?_ A nice dimeritium one in his hand would wipe some of those smug looks off their faces. 

But when he opened his mouth for what would have been a perfectly charming greeting, the words got _lodged_ somewhere. Like someone had fastened a hand around his throat and squeezed them back down. His mind scrambled to recollect itself, but anything he was going to say faded until he was left staring lamely at Keira in confusion.

"Oh, Lambert, dear. I was just telling my colleagues about our trial this evening. How are you feeling?"

His brow furrowed as he looked down at her. Again. Couldn't _speak._

"Darling, you may speak."

"Fine. I'm feeling fine." _What the_ _fuck?_ The mages exchanged glances, mumbling, impressed.

She smiled brightly, and then one of the others leaned forward, "But does it affect anything else? Say, his strength."

"Shall we experiment?" Keira looked back at Lambert, who was now staring at her with widened eyes. "Pick up my friend here on his chair and place it on your shoulder."

Cutlery and plates clattered on the table as Lambert hopped easily over to the other side. The sorcerer managed to stimmy the yelp of surprise as he was plucked from the floor with ease, the seat of the chair placed on Lambert's shoulder, with the sorcerer still balanced on top. Another round of murmuring, accompanied by appreciative nods, and then the man at his shoulder spoke, "Well, very impressive. Does it work just for the brewer? Place me down. Carefully."

Lambert obeyed.

"Oh, oh. This is fantastic. Keira, this is… tell us, you used a base of Fisstech? Not much though if he is still sentient."

"Lambert, dear. Come sit here by my feet," she gestured at the floor and the Witcher dropped immediately onto his knees beside her, swivelling until he sat with his back against her chair. "Let me talk you through. Not all, you understand, I'm planning to make quite the profit."

 _Fuck. Fuck._ No matter how many times he tried to stand up, his limbs remained completely rigid. Unwilling to obey his commands, but shifting immediately when Keira told him to put his head in her lap, or fetch her some more wine. They tested several feats, including making him cast Igni across the hall. As the flames spilled from his palm, the horror coiled in the pit of his stomach and he felt sick; they could tell him to cast at someone and he’d do it. Anyone. A kid. Someone who couldn’t defend themselves _._ This was fucking dangerous. And he'd walked right into it. _Trusted_ a sorceress like an absolute fucking moron.

Eventually they grew bored of their evening’s entertainment, after making him perform a few more tricks, and retired to their respective rooms. Keira took him back to the suite they had been given, and with an internal sigh of relief, Lambert thought it was over. She'd probably fuck him like this and then he would go fucking batshit in the morning. He stood in the centre of the room, because she had _told_ him to and imagined the nice pair of dimeritium cuffs that Eskel had in his little box of resources. A couple of hours in those would make her regret this level of piss-taking. 

"Lambert, darling. One of my friends will be joining us this evening. I knew you wouldn't mind."

 _I fucking mind._ He looked at her blankly.

She had barely shed the top layer of her dress before the sorcerer he had hoisted into the air stepped into the room. Auburn hair that fell around his face in loose waves, bright blue eyes and an athletic build; any other time, Lambert would be game. Not now. Not when he couldn't even lift his fucking arms without permission. And then the bastard spoke and his words sent icy claws down Lambert's spine. "You said he likes to be dominated."

_Oh fuck. No. Fucking no._

"Oh yes. We've only just started really, but tonight will be a serious turn on for him. No control whatsoever. They all like the same type of thing, don’t they? Just don’t _break_ anything, I know he’s a Witcher, but he does need to get back to work tomorrow," she smiled brightly at Lambert, and then gestured vaguely in his direction. "Clothes off. Let Chester see how beautiful you are."

_No._

His hands moved of their own accord, even as he internally screamed at them to stay still. He folded his clothes neatly over the chair and stood with his arms by his sides as _Chester_ circled him. Lambert was not a shy man. He quite happily walked around naked _anywhere._ But he had agency in those situations. He had none now. Chester was a circling predator, and Lambert was a wolf pinned to the floor with his throat exposed. _Don’t touch me._ When one of those soft hands brushed over his hips, he tensed and sucked in a breath. The sorcerer tutted, "He's still a little jumpy, perhaps you should increase the amount of Fisstech in the recipe.”

“Perhaps. But I don’t want takers to become useless. Taking an inert corpse to bed might be a turn on for some, but not most.”

 **_No._ ** _I don’t want this._ _Stop fucking touching me._

No matter how much Lambert railed against the cage inside his head, he couldn't break free. It would take a single twist of his wrist to snap Chester’s neck and end the belligerent tirade of disgusting pet names currently spilling out of his mouth. He could crush the hand that invited itself to every part of his body, that struck him in the face, with a squeeze of his fingers...

_I don’t want this. Please stop._

It wasn’t the pain they caused, or even the forced pleasure as they touched him. It was what they told him to say. To agree to. They demeaned him until the voice inside his head was parroting it back as well. After what felt like hours, the pain and the humiliation finally broke through the barrier of his mutagens; epinephrine, endorphins, and enkephalins flooded his system and he allowed himself to escape into the disembodied drunkenness to get away.

The space was familiar. The same high as when he was with his pack, but not quite. _Different._ He didn’t feel safe here. There was a bitterness that stole the euphoria and left him feeling empty as he floated. It was just him and them in a soulless void. Their voices circled in his head; an endless echo to remind him that this was his worth. He deserved what was happening to him. And worse, _he liked it, didn’t he?_ This was how he liked to be treated. This is what his submissive moniker meant. 

The moment a rod connected across his shoulder blades, he was back in a dilapidated farmhouse in the middle of Aedirn. He could hear the wailing screams of a woman somewhere in the room, feel the bone breaking impact of fists against a body that wasn’t strong enough to fight back. Unwanted. Nothing more than a drain on resources. His _only_ use was to provide a barricade between those fists and the woman crumpled and broken in the corner of the room. He could taste the blood in his mouth and the angry hopelessness tightened in his chest. He couldn’t escape it. It consumed his headspace.

_This is what I deserve._

At some point in the evening, Lambert was vaguely aware of a dark pool of salt water gathering on the flagstones beneath his face. They didn’t notice.


	2. Rescue

Feainn, the sixth savaed of the elven calendar, was fast approaching. With Nazair now several hundred miles in his wake, Geralt was making good time to arrive in Dol Blathanna at least three days before the Midaëte festival. The closer he got to Posada, the more his mind was occupied by one of the three men that awaited him there. Inane, whimsical thoughts that left him with a small smile as he oiled his armour or walked Roach sedately up yet another dusty path. 

What would Jaskier think about his new haircut? Cropped short at the back and sides, still long on the top and pulled behind his head in a tail. The Nilfgaardian Empire was _warm._ Especially in summer. What new trinket had Eskel found on his travels? The gift Geralt had for him in his saddlebags would hopefully measure up. Was Lambert staying out of trouble? Geralt had picked up a whole new Gwent deck since they’d last met; he was going to earn some of his money back. With some luck.

_Were they thinking about him as much as he was them?_

Difficult to say. He hoped they were. 

Geralt drew Roach to a stop at the peak of the incline they had been trudging up for the best part of an hour, and together they gazed down the slope to the city of Lyria. “You need oats. And I need a bath.” There was still about two hundred miles to go, but if he turned up reeking like he currently did, then Jaskier was liable to drown him in the Dyfne upon arrival. Eskel would help. “He’d hold me down while Jaskier fetched the brush,” he paused, glanced at Roach, “Potentially not a bad thing. You seem to like a brush.” They began the descent to the city gates.

The inn he found just inside the city gates was quiet and clean. With Roach in the safe hands of the young stablehand, Geralt ordered himself some water and set about peeling his armour and clothes off. Several days worth of sweat glued his shirt and trousers to his skin and he toyed with the idea of just casting Igni on his braies and socks and cutting his losses. The basin arrived quickly, and the small lad running buckets up and down the stairs managed to fill it before the water lost much of its heat. 

Geralt picked through his potions, oils and decoctions until he found the bottle he was looking for; the only one labelled and in Jaskier’s flowery script - _Geralt Scrub._ He was down to his last bottle and had been saving it for this stop. Cork clutched in his teeth, he took a deep breath of the scent; a dry wood accord of cedar, cypress, mellow teak, sandalwood, with hints of amber and dark patchouli. Jaskier had used the words ‘masculine’ and ‘earthy’, but Geralt could smell the smoky vanilla and herbal undertones, even if the bard hadn’t. It didn’t matter. Jaskier had bought it for him, so he used it whenever he managed to find a decent bath.

With so few patrons in the tavern below, and empty rooms either side, it would have been easy to doze off in the water, but with a growling stomach and resources to procure for the next few hundred miles, Geralt had to settle for a quick soak to remove the worst of the sweat and road dust. He scrubbed some of the scented wash into his neck and chest - the places that Jaskier and Eskel gravitated to - and climbed out. The water was still clear enough for laundry, and he used a bar of lye to scrub the worst of his journey out of his clothes. His armour took longer, rinsed twice and re-oiled, he left it on the writing desk by the window to dry as he took inventory. 

Needed more dwarven spirit. Whetstone was worn down to a useless slip of rock, but his mineral oils were in good supply. Few others bits and pieces. Not too expensive. Shopping list in hand, Geralt slung his swords over his shoulder and headed downstairs for some food. He was barely halfway through the huge bowl of stew thrown down in front of him by the innkeep when a conversation at the other end of the room perked his ear.

“Witcher’s gotta’ go down tonight, surely. He’s got more colour on ‘is skin than a Korathian tribesman. Been fightin’ every night for weeks. Several rounds.” A slurp of ale.

“Nah, money’s still on ‘im. Even battered, he’ll take on three men and leave ‘em all bleedin’. Should be a good fight though.”

 _Witcher. Battered._ Geralt abandoned his meal after a final mouthful of mead and cast a long shadow over their table. “The fight. Where is it?” Once they got over the initial spluttering fear that tended to overcome most people he interrupted while they were drinking, they gave him a location and time. An hour to wait. Outside the city walls at a small farmstead. They were kind enough to draw him some directions.

***

The gathered crowd comprised the usual scum and salt of the earth respectively. Off duty watchmen standing shoulder to shoulder with the crooks they pursued in daylight hours. As Geralt pushed his way through, he could hear the exchange of wagers and betting slips. Most of the money was on the Witcher.

The first combatant was already in the ring. Easily clocking seven foot, his arms and legs almost as thick as Geralt’s waist, and his body covered in the type of fatty muscle earned through a combination of hard labour and plentiful amounts of beer. Big, dangerous, but human. As the announcer brayed his name over the noise of the spectators, he threw his fists in the air and received enthusiastic support.

His opponent didn’t get an introduction. Geralt’s lips pressed into a thin line as Lambert stepped out into the ring. Despite most of the money accumulating on his side this evening, he was welcomed with a chorus of jeers and slurs, one of which drew his attention and received a flippant middle finger in reply. A patchwork of bruises covered a torso that looked more gaunt than usual; his hair and beard had grown far beyond their usual length. Almost diminutive compared to the man opposite. He bounced up and down on the balls of his feet and punched at the air energetically, goading his opponent into an attack. 

Lambert deflected the first wild swing for his head with his forearm and delivered a brutal uppercut to the meat of the abdomen, and then another to the face with his deflecting hand. The blow should have cracked bone and ruptured organs, but the Witcher was holding back. A pattern that repeated itself through each deflection and counter, and Lambert was sure to take several huge impacts himself to even out the display. Geralt felt each one as if he had taken it personally, but he could still see the theatre for what it was.

A con. 

Lambert's gaze flickered away from his opponent to the left whenever he had room, and Geralt followed his eyes each time, trying to spot the object of his returning attention. On the fifth furtive glance, Geralt found the man he was looking for. A handler. He was leaning on the wooden fence closing in the ring and his hand occasionally gestured up, or down, depending on the response of the crowd. A bare flicker of a movement only really visible to keen eyes. Moderating intensity, eeking out the last few bets. And then a quick swipe, left to right. _End it._

Geralt watched Lambert heave a deep sigh and step into his opponent. He expected the Witcher to deliver a definitive strike to bring the match to an end - there was a blatant opening at the throat that would topple the goliath of a farmhand instantly - but instead Lambert lifted his forearms to protect his face and took a direct hit to his stomach, followed by another into the side of the ribs. Grunts and fleshy cracks followed each impact, and Lambert responded with sloppy uppercuts and wide open looping punches that his opponent broke through. _He was throwing the fight._ A right hook knocked him down to his knees, and he dropped his arms away from his face. They hung limp by his sides as he took a second without defence. 

Geralt leaned forward. _Finish it, tap out._ Another. He kept righting himself back onto his knees, making a show of trying to get to his feet. Each time he was driven back down again. His blood spurted from his mouth in a shower across the dirt when he ended up on hands and knees, but still didn’t tap out. He shifted his leg underneath and his opponent kicked him in the ribs until he buckled to his side. _Still he tried to get up._ This went beyond putting on a show. This was self harm.

Geralt shouldered his way through towards the bookie and lifted his left hand. _Axii._ “Call it. Now.”

His victim’s face went momentarily slack as the Sign took hold, and then he shook his head as if waking from a stupor before barking out over the crowd. “And that’s time, folks! Victory to Jack, Witcher’s down. Collect your winnings.” 

Lambert rolled slowly onto his front, dirt and blood smearing bruised skin as he worked himself up onto hands and knees. When he looked up towards the exit, Geralt was standing there. Without a word, Lambert staggered to his feet, one hand pressed to his ribs as he felt for the damage. One bloodied palm patted the centre of Geralt’s chest in greeting, before Lambert pushed past. Not out of belligerence, but single-minded intent. Geralt followed him to the back of a stable and found him kneeling by his bags, “Ahh, _shit._ ”

“Lambert, what the fuck was that?”

A quiet grunt. “Swallow.”

“What?”

“‘M out, you got any?” Lambert fell onto his backside, teeth gritted. “S’nother round tomorrow.”

There were a thousand different levels of scolding Geralt had queued up in the back of his head, but the longer he examined Lambert, the more bruises he saw, the more bones that jutted, the more distant the reprimands became, until all he could do was ask lamely. “Where’s your horse?”

“Sold it. Needed armour repaired.” 

“Why are you -?” Geralt stopped, drew in a deep breath, and moved to help the other to his feet. “C’mon, my bags are back at the inn. Got some Swallow, and we can get you cleaned up.”

“S’fine, I can walk.” With a huge amount of effort, Lambert pushed himself upright and shrugged his gambeson over his shoulders, followed by his sword belts. When Geralt moved to help with the bags, he met resistance, bruised fingers tightening around the strap.

“Let me carry your bags, or it’s going to take us all fucking night to get back.”

“S’nice night.”

“Lambert.”

“Fine. Take it.” 

As they walked back, Geralt tested the weight of the bags on his shoulders and quickly realised the reason behind Lambert’s resistance. They were basically empty.

***

“Just give me the Swallow and I’ll get out of your hair, which has… all been cut off. Yennefer told you that looks good, did she?” Lambert glanced tentatively around the room, as if worried someone else might be hiding in the dark corners.

“Mmm.” Geralt pulled the vial from his pack, but when the other reached for it, he drew it away. “Gambeson. Belts. Off first.” 

“If you wanted to see me naked, ya’ just had to ask,” Lambert ducked out of his swords and chucked them - his most prized possessions - onto the floor with a painful amount of irreverence, followed quickly by his gambeson. Potion plucked from Geralt’s fingers, he moved to stand by the open window, gazing wordlessly at the street below as he drank it down.

Geralt crouched down by the bags he had carried back and opened each in search of… _anything._ No White Gull, no salves, no decoctions or oils. No whetstone, no camping equipment - not even a bedroll - no crossbow, or crossbow bolts. The list just went on and on. 

He pulled Lambert’s gambeson over and inspected it. Recently repaired, he hadn’t been lying. Next he picked up the discarded sword belts and gripped the pommel of the first, drawing it out enough to inspect up to the middle of the blade. Still maintained, but would be in need of some care soon. Geralt rubbed the heels of his hands into his eyes. The puzzle pieces were falling into place. 

If he confronted Lambert directly, he knew he would get no answer. Snark at best, a full on shutdown at worst. This was a level of self-sabotage he had never seen another Witcher commit. Without salves, potions, Lambert was a sitting duck on a contract. One wrong move could cost him everything. And here he was, getting the shit kicked out of him to make it even more likely the Path would end him.

“You were going to turn up to Posada looking like that? Jaskier will have a fit.” Geralt straightened slowly.

Lambert didn’t look at him. “Not going.” 

“Why?” Surprised.

A growl. “You don’t fucking well want me there. None of you do. Cut the crap.” Lambert chucked the empty vial onto the desk next to one of Geralt’s pauldrons, and then returned to his bags, ignoring the fact that they had been tossed as he did them back up. 

“Well, that’s bullshit. So now give me the real reason. Don’t lie to me.”

“Or what, Geralt?” Lambert rounded on him, fists clenched, but eyes bleeding misery rather than anger. “You gunna’ break my left arm next? Well, come on, brother. I’m right here. Come get it.” Arms spread, fingers beckoning as he took a stride forward. Geralt didn’t move. Didn’t rise to the taunt, so Lambert bit again. “Yeah, that’s what I thought. Not worth your time, am I? Why would the great White Wolf waste even a single second on a worthless piece of shit like me?” He snatched his gambeson and swords, but when he turned for the door, Geralt stood in his path. “Move.”

“No.” The final puzzle piece. This would be a lot easier if Jaskier or Eskel were here. They would know what to do, what steps to take, how to soothe Lambert until he was comfortable again. But they _weren’t_. It was just Geralt. The only person that stood between Lambert and self-destruction. He wasn’t moving.

“Move, or I’ll make you.” Lambert’s voice cracked, his fists were shaking, and he couldn’t lift his eyes to meet Geralt’s gaze; they bore into the space to the left in a frantic attempt to bring himself under control. 

When Geralt stepped forward, Lambert flinched away, but froze completely as callused fingers slipped over his jaw and around the back of his neck. The meagre belongings he had left fell from his hands with a dull thud, and he gripped Geralt’s shirt as that familiar scent wormed its way beneath the fragile pieces of armour - anger, self-loathing - keeping him together. 

“You don’t have to tell me, don’t have to go to Posada if you don’t want to,” Geralt murmured, bringing Lambert tight to his chest. “But, before you go, let me look after you. Let me help.”

Lambert drew in a shuddering breath. His eyes were stinging. Everything hurt. He was tired of staring into the darkness by himself. So he stood there now, gasping in lungfuls of the scent that reminded him of the times they were all together because the bard _insisted_ they groomed properly. _Buttercup._ The shirt under his face was wet. Probably blood. But he just clung on tighter. Geralt felt as solid as he felt fragile; strong hands pulled him back from the brink of the abyss that threatened to consume him. Maybe he could be allowed this small mercy. Just one night to feel warm again. “Please.”


	3. Care

The young lad who had run sprints up the stairs for Geralt’s bath looked thoroughly put out when the Witcher asked for a second, but once he was shown the shiny side of a Crown he soon found the energy. The room filled with steam and the pleasant scent of the remaining salts from the bottom of his bag, and Geralt waited by the desk, making a show of shuffling through his alchemy bag, as Lambert hesitated with his hands on the waistband of his trousers. 

“You’re, uh… you’re going to -.” He glanced at the bath.

“Mmhm. Get in. You’ll feel better after.” Still with his back turned, Geralt jangled a few more bottles together, and then unbuttoned his shirt cuff to roll his sleeves further up his biceps. Only when he heard the slosh of water and a quiet hiss of discomfort did he finally approach. Lambert had misplaced his shaving kit - in fact, most of his self-care items were missing - and so Geralt carried his own over and dumped it on the floor as he knelt at Lambert’s side, “Going to shave you and cut your hair,” he squinted, “don’t think I’ve ever seen you clean shaven.”

“Don’t. I look about fifteen. Leave me some dignity, for fuck’s sake,” Lambert slumped back, sinking down until only his head, shoulders and knees were above the waterline. “You don’t have to do this, Geralt.” Eyes cast to the side, brow creased.

“I know,” Geralt shuffled around on his knees and pulled out a clean razor, “I want to. Need to cut it first. Too many tangles to wash out. Usual?” 

“Mmm.” 

Other than tilting his head when prompted, Lambert sat perfectly still with his eyes closed. It was easy. Geralt was gentler than he could ever have imagined, and the sensation of those big hands at his neck and cupping his face was as close to bliss as Lambert had felt in weeks. Familiar. _Warm…_ He must have dozed, because the splash of the washcloth in the water startled him awake.

“Sorry,” Geralt tucked a knuckle under his chin and tilted his head up. The small shaving mirror placed in front of his eyes. “Thoughts?”

“Not bad,” Lambert glanced at his reflection for only a second before he looked away. Geralt had left him with his usual layer of stubble and his hair was only marginally shorter than its usual length. Without the layer of hair, his weight loss was more obvious, and even with Swallow, the bruising and swelling still garish. It would be less by tomorrow, nothing was actually broken. “Thought about retiring to become a barber?”

“Not very good at the conversation part.” A note of wry amusement as Geralt lathered up the lye soap in his hand. “If I’m about to touch anywhere you don’t want me to, you need to say, alright?”

“Why would there be anywhere - ?” Lambert squirmed, teeth clenching as he pushed himself more upright in the water. The sudden awareness that Geralt might have worked out more than he had any right to struck Lambert cold. He couldn’t know, right? They wouldn’t have _told_ anyone. Did people boast about that kind of thing? He’d heard some soldiers do it, and then started a brawl with said soldiers. _Fucking animals._ The anxious questions fell through his head like an avalanche, and he looked at Geralt with wide, unseeing eyes as he drowned in them.

“Relax,” Geralt rested a palm on the back of a hand that clenched on the edge of the tub in a white knuckle grip, and was relieved when fingers loosened upon his contact. It snapped Lambert back to reality, and he stared into the familiar pair of golden eyes that watched him. Geralt spoke softly still, “Just tell me to stop. Don’t need to say why.” A pause, before he picked up Lambert’s hand and began to work the dirt from under his nails and across his knuckles, then progressed up his wrist and arm to his shoulders.

Geralt was methodical, but far from clinical. Flat palms smoothed away the soap lather rather than the washcloth, and Lambert found himself leaning into the contact, even when extra pressure on the bruising was uncomfortable. Something more than the dirt and grime was being erased; something buried under his skin as well as on it, and Lambert wasn’t sure what, but Geralt's hands were scrubbing it away inch by inch. _He wanted it gone._ A couple of times Geralt paused and pushed his shoulder gently, easing him away, “Just sit back.”

When Geralt dipped a hand under the waterline, it was only to grab an ankle and Lambert slipped into the water, “You really are very thor-- ahh, fuck,” he tried to yank his foot back as Geralt slid fingers between his toes and the shock spasmed its way up his leg, “bastard, that-- don’t do it again!” A small smile quirked at the corners of Lambert’s lips as he caught sight of that mischievous fucking grin on Geralt’s face. “Oh, right. I see. Fucking great. Don’t tell the bard.”

“I’m telling the bard.” Geralt allowed Lambert’s foot to slip back into the water once he’d scrubbed up to the back of the knee, and then attended the other leg with less perversity. He shuffled around the side and offered soap and cloth to Lambert. “Gunna’ wash your hair. Water’s getting cold, and you’re shrivelling up.”

“Mmm,” Lambert sat with the cloth and the soap in his hand and looked down into the water. It was stupid, and _definitely_ disgusting, but he hadn’t touched anything below the waist _since -_ he just - it felt like that part of him was a traitor, because it had -, and when they -, it -. 

_Fuck._

Every time he thought about it, his mind cut off, unwilling to even _consider_ what had happened. He had washed in rivers and streams, but, quickly, and sometimes not even taking his clothes off. “Right, yeah… uh…” He lathered the soap into the cloth and then passed it back to Geralt who waited patiently behind him. 

The first stroke of Geralt’s hands through his hair made Lambert shiver, and his eyes fluttered as the sensation bloomed behind them. Firm fingers and thumbs circled against his scalp in slow, wide arcs and - _fuck,_ did Geralt _actually_ do this for a living, or - ?

“Everything alright?” A quiet rumble to allow the peace to settle. He knew it was. Geralt could smell the happy bliss permeating the slightly sour scent of misery and anger. The first hints appeared when he’d accidentally, and then very _deliberately,_ messed with Lambert’s toes, and now it grew more potent as his fingers worked down the back of his head and neck.

“Yeah… it… yeah.”

“Good. Going to clean yourself?”

“Yeah.” The slosh of water as the cloth disappeared, and Geralt loosened his hands a touch as Lambert squirmed and adjusted to be thorough, his attention distracted from the darker thoughts that now faded into the back of his head. “D - don’t stop.”

“I’m not. Lean back now.”

Arms propped up over the edges of the bath, Lambert leaned into Geralt’s attention. The heat of the water, the touch of Geralt’s hands, the feeling of being _clean_ ; it gathered into a warm thrum in Lambert’s chest, and without the assiduous attention of his anxiety, the tension eased out of his muscles. He could feel them _ache_ for the first time in weeks; a deep, dull throb down to his very bones. 

There was such a big difference between pain and soreness. Pain was harsh, biting; it meant being hurt, the _act_ of hurting; blood, fear. Soreness was almost cathartic; the aftermath of pain, the mark left behind once it had _ended_ , and the beginning of being _fine again_. Lambert realised he quite _liked_ soreness. 

Geralt leaned forward with a contented rumble, and Lambert tilted into the face that rubbed against his, smiling languidly at the, “Well done, little wolf.” 

“‘M doing good?” Almost a slur.

“Yeah, doing real good. Need you to lean forward and rinse. Then we’re going to sleep. Tired.”

“Pfft, there was me thinkin’ you wanted all of this. ‘M irresistible usually.”

“Mm,” Geralt smiled, thumb brushing across Lambert’s plush lower lip. “When you’re feeling better. Up.” Lambert was oscillating between jumpy and skittish to his usual self, like his mind was trying to reset itself to normality, but every time it settled something jarred it back into free falling. Sleep was needed. And lots of it.

The towel was scratchy, but Geralt was gentle. The removal of dirt and blood had revealed hundreds of smaller cuts and scratches; they would be gone by the morning, but uncomfortable in the meantime. He finished with Lambert’s hair and ruffled it with the towel until it was tousled and stuck on end. “In bed. It’s all clean. I checked for lice.”

“How do you find all the nice inns?” Lambert flopped onto the mattress and squirmed until he was half under the blanket. _Fuck it. This would do_ . All he wanted to do now was sleep. He just felt _heavy._ Geralt joined him after rustling around in his bag, and Lambert fell down the depression he made, becoming the little spoon as their bodies pressed flush. “Well, this isn’t emasculating at all.”

“Hmm, you didn’t complain last time,” Geralt slid his arm under the pillow Lambert was lying on and tucked his face into damp hair. “Who does this remind you of?” The vial in his other hand settled in front of Lambert’s nose. The oil had a faint, sweet scent attached to memories of sweat, pleasure and safe hands.

A quiet snuffle, and then, “Eskel,” Lambert paused, “wait, isn’t that what he uses for - ?”

Geralt chuckled. “Yeah. Not just for that though. Helps bring down bruising and takes the sting off shaving nicks. Pretty good stuff.”

“Don’t waste it on me.” A quiet murmur, and Lambert tilted his face away. “Cuts’ll be gone tomorrow, bruising isn't permanent.”

“Hmm.” Geralt poured some oil into his free hand and held it until it was warm. “Not wasting if it makes you feel better now.” He set his palm over Lambert’s chest and left it there for a moment, allowing the scent to flood up through the Witcher’s senses. In the absence of the man himself, this was the closest Lambert would get to the comfort of Eskel for some time. 

Geralt knew it would work. He did it to himself at least a couple of times every month. When the memories were edged in pain and the frustration of following their loose, billowing threads became too much, he took a bath in Jaskier’s scented soaps and smeared his chest with Eskel’s oil and just laid on a bed surrounded by the smell of them. The best nights’ sleep he had. 

With an almost imperceptible sigh, Lambert deflated against him, giving up any effort to occupy his own space on the bed. Geralt moved his hand in slow circles until every dark bruise was covered in a thin film of oil; he never went below the navel, but continued long after Lambert lost the battle to stay awake and his breathing evened out. “I’ve got you, little wolf.”

***

The body in his arms shivered and Geralt peeled himself away from the sweat-soaked back. Lambert’s eyes were screwed shut and his teeth were clenched. Until a second ago, he’d been talking, _begging_ , and Geralt could see the tracks of tears down his cheeks. “Lambert.” A hand moved to touch his bicep… 

The elbow that smashed into the centre of his face was unexpected, as was the Quen shield that flared to life as the Witcher rolled off of the bed and into a low crouch; his training kicking in to defend him from the monster in his head. Eyes blown wide with acute stress; his fists clenched and shaking. Slowly, through the orange haze of his shield, Lambert’s vision swam back into focus and he saw Geralt sitting up in the bed nursing his bloodied nose. “Oh, fuck, Geralt,” he moved forward, the shield flickering and fading. “Fuck… I’m… shit.” Shaking hands lifted and then pulled away abruptly. “I need to - I’ll leave - I -.” His mind still wanted to run. Anywhere. Run away. From what he did. From what he just _dreamed about._

“No you fuckin’ aren’t,” Geralt took Lambert by the elbow. He didn’t pull him or force him anywhere, but kept him in place long enough to hear reason. “Sit. Please.” 

Lambert did. Tentatively. His heart was still hammering in his chest and he took several deep breaths to bring it back under his control. _Cold._ The blanket that draped over his shoulders made him startle, and Geralt’s hand stayed on his shoulder. “Geralt, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean -.”

“I should know better than to wake a Witcher having a nightmare,” Geralt mumbled through his palm. The blood was slowing. “Didn’t sound like it was the normal kind of monster you were fighting.”

The silence stretched into minutes as Lambert stared at the edge of the bed. He didn’t want to tell anyone. If he didn’t tell anyone, then it didn’t happen. That was his logic. As soon as he told someone, then they knew, and because it existed in _their_ head it had to be true. _And yet…_ he looked at Geralt and swallowed hard. “It’s - I -,” he drew in a stuttering breath. “I made a shitty decision, and it got me in trouble, and… uh…” 

“I make a lot of shitty decisions. None of them give me nightmares.” _Not anymore, anyway._ Geralt waited patiently as Lambert worked through his explanation without further comment. To hear him stutter, timorous and ashamed, made Geralt want to clutch him tightly and never let go. Lambert’s cocksure attitude was meant to be one of life’s constants. Never changing. Unerring. And yet here it was, shattered to pieces.

“I took a, uh… a trial decoction of something, and - I -,” A hand scrubbed over the back of his head. “So, uh... I went to this party with some sorcerers and I couldn’t control - _they_ had control, and they made me do some stupid fucking party tricks, _fucking_ humiliating. And then, uh -,” Lambert was shaking and Geralt shuffled over the mattress a little closer; he didn’t touch, but settled his unbloodied hand nearby. Within grasping distance, “- we went back to a bedroom, and… two of them, they - so, they… did things that… I didn’t want.” His voice broke, and he couldn’t look at Geralt. Couldn’t look at the disgust. Or the pity. 

“Lambert, did they r - ?”

“ _No._ Don’t fucking call it that, don’t, don’t you fucking dare.”

“Alright. Alright.”

Lambert drummed his fists against his temples and sucked in another watery, shuddering breath. “I was - Geralt - they - I fucking - I actually - I -.” Because he’d been hard, hadn’t he? And they’d made him come. When that fucking sorcerer had pushed his-, _fuck._ So that meant he’d liked it, right? That he had given some consent somehow. That. That’s what was going around in his head and biting at him more than anything else.

Two big arms wrapped around him and pulled him back onto the mattress as the panic consumed him. _Fucking panic._ A Witcher. Panicking. But there it was; the flood of cortisol and epinephrine flooding over his mutagens like a tidal river breaking the walls of a dam. It edged his vision in white and orange, and he could hear his heart thundering in his ears, but no amount of his training could bring it under control. Like snatching dandelion seeds from a hurricane.

Geralt just held him. One hand on the back of his neck while the other settled somewhere near his ribs. The slow, even rise of his chest brought Lambert back to reality, cutting off the tailspin before it could send him running out the door. “It’s not your fault. Nothing that happened to you was your fault.”

“But, Geralt, I -.”

“No. Not your fault.”

“I -.”

“Not your fault. You didn’t deserve it.”

Silence. Lambert slumped to Geralt’s chest, breathing even, and stared into space until the sweat had dried to his skin. “You must think I’m pathetic. A coward.”

Geralt pulled him away, hands around his face, golden eyes alight. “It took courage to tell me that. More courage than I probably would've had,” he leaned forward and pressed his lips to Lambert’s forehead; innocuous, undemanding, but there. “You’re not alone now. We'll deal with this together. All of us.”

“Oh, _fuck…_ no, don’t tell them, please - I can’t -.” 

“Eskel will take one look at you and know something’s wrong. Jaskier will sit on your head, or your shoulder, until he figures it out,” Geralt smoothed a thumb under Lambert’s eye. “I won’t tell them. Not my place. But you should. Not a burden you need to carry by yourself.” Hands left that stubbled jaw to probe at his own; his nose wasn’t broken, just sore. 

“‘M sorry I hurt your pretty face.” Lambert mumbled, casting a quick glance up from the bed.

“It's alright. Still better looking than yours.” A toothy grin, and Geralt looped an arm around Lambert’s shoulders to pull him down. “We love you.”

“Oh, _fuck…_ don’t say shit like that…”

“We love you, Lambert.”

“ _Geralt…"_ Groaned in despair.

“We love you.”

“Please stop.”

“No,” a pause. “We love you.”

“You know what, I think you’ve spent too long in Nilfgaard with all that courtly love bullshit.”

“Mm,” Geralt pulled Lambert onto his chest, head over his heart and an arm sprawled out over his abdomen. “Happened long before that. It’s the Jaskier Effect.” 

“Buttercup Syndrome,” Lambert smirked. “B.S. S’accurate.”

Geralt combed his fingers over Lambert’s hair until he saw his eyelashes flutter down to his cheeks. Eyes closed. “Coming to Posada with me?”

“Yeah... think I will.”

“Good.”

Geralt stayed awake for the rest of the night, smoothing a hand over Lambert’s neck and back whenever he started to shake. And in those early hours of the morning, Geralt stared at the ceiling and planned how he was going to rip the fucking heads off those sorcerers.


	4. Healing

Lambert tapped his chin, squinting down the path. “Alright, how about this one. Ready? Why don’t Witchers talk about their contracts after ‘Toss a Coin’?”

Geralt raised a brow over Roach’s back. 

“We’ve learned our leshen.” 

“Lambert, they’re getting worse.”

“One more. This one’s all for you.” Lambert cleared his throat, resting a hand on Roach’s neck. “What Witcher has the most knowledge of every monster in the bestiary?”

“Hmm. Dare I ask.”

“Geralt of Trivia,” Lambert bent forward so that he could look at Geralt’s reaction under Roach’s head, and caught the flicker of a small smile. “Fucking _yes,_ you found that one funny. C’mon!” He threw his hands in the air, head tilted to the heavens. “Victory is mine. That will be one round of drinks, and three of your new Nilfgaardian deck, thank you very much.”

“A deal’s a deal.” 

They were only ten minutes from their designated meeting place. That same damn tavern. Eskel, being the sentimental type, had agreed with Jaskier that it was _only right_ that their midsummer soiree should begin where it _all_ began. Who was Geralt to argue? He was outnumbered.

Lambert was looking better. It had taken them the best part of a week to make the journey, mainly because the stubborn jackass refused to ride on Roach. His bruises were gone, and after another few doses of Swallow - Geralt was now completely cleaned out - his ribs had healed and all the swelling had gone. He was sleeping better under the stars too, but then Lambert always had. There was an untamed fire in his heart and soul that yearned for the freedom of the wilderness; Geralt was pretty certain that Lambert would be quite happy to never set foot in civilisation again if he had a choice. 

The fields of Dol Blathanna were in full bloom, and shortly before they arrived at the tavern, Lambert suddenly bolted from the road. Geralt drew Roach to an abrupt stop, “Lambert, what are you - ?”

“Feainnewedd!” Lambert called out from amongst a large collection of tall shrubs. When he re-emerged, he clutched in his hand a small bunch of purple flowers. “Means Sun Child. Like Buttercup - no, fuck off, Roach. These aren’t for you.” The Witcher held the flowers out to his side as the mare nosed her way over his gambeson. Geralt smiled and steered her back. Feainnewedd. Legend said they only grew where Elder blood had been spilled; the elves said they only started to grow after the death of Lara Dorren. Ciri’s ancestor. 

It was a balmy summer’s day, and even though the evening was now drawing in, it was no surprise at all when Jaskier sprung from a meadow of tall flowers upon their arrival. He looked a little tousled, and Geralt smirked when Eskel slowly emerged after him, looking far too pleased with himself. The bard barreled forward at full tilt and Geralt dropped Roach’s reins to accept the fervoured embrace thrust upon him, “Jaskier.”

“Geralt! Oh my - what have you done to your _hair_?” Jaskier stepped back and held Geralt at arms lengths, hands on his biceps. Blue eyes squinted. _Evaluating._ And then he tilted his head back with a pleased smile. “I like it. Very dashing.” Geralt sighed. Relieved. 

Eskel encircled Lambert, gripping his right forearm and then hauling him forward into an embrace, his left hand slipping around the back of his neck. From the corner of his eye, Geralt watched as Eskel hugged a little tighter and dropped his hand to Lambert’s collarbone. In the week of walking, Lambert hadn’t put any weight back on. Eskel had noticed instantly; he pulled Lambert away from him, amber eyes searching, “Rough few weeks?”

“Yeah, uh… yeah.” Lambert looked off to the side, no eye contact, and Eskel’s gaze shifted across to Geralt, brow set. _What’s going on?_ Geralt shook his head down to the left, lips set. _Talk later._

Jaskier caught the exchange. Of course he did. He was well-versed in all types of Witcher communication, including the silent language that Eskel and Geralt shared when they thought no one was looking. He sidled his way up to Lambert, swapping places so that Eskel could haul Geralt forward into an embrace, and was immediately presented with a beautiful bunch of purple flowers. 

“Oh, dear heart, they’re beautiful,” Jaskier scooped them up with a grin, and then slid an arm around the Witcher’s waist as he admired them. “Come on, they do the most amazing beer here. Even Eskel likes it.” The two drifted away and Lambert happily slung his arm around Jaskier’s shoulders, telling him about the origin of the flowers and their links to Ciri. 

Once Roach was safely stabled, her tack removed and a nice bucket full of oats at her nose, Eskel picked up one of Lambert’s bags and paused briefly before he put it over his shoulder. “Where’s all his kit?”

“Something happened. He should tell you himself.”

“Hmm,” Eskel took another couple of bags and they headed into the tavern. Conversation inevitably steered towards Geralt’s time in Nazair, and Eskel listened with rapt attention. Yennefer was suffering from amnesia too, and the remaining members of the School of Viper had been keeping her out of trouble as a favour to Geralt. A favour he had no memory of cashing in. Several hours went by without any sign of Jaskier or Lambert, and Eskel kept peering at the staircase.

As Geralt ordered another mead - his eighth, perhaps, he wasn’t really keeping count - Jaskier finally joined them. Eskel slowly lowered his drink from his mouth when he saw the tears glistening in the bard’s eyes. “What’s going on?”

Jasker looked at Geralt first. “You know.” A statement.

“Yes.” Geralt didn’t need any further explanation. Jaskier had just arrived from upstairs without Lambert. It would be no surprise if the Witcher had taken one look at Jaskier’s open face and big blue eyes and just collapsed into them. A tight embrace, perhaps a kiss, and a perfectly innocent question about why he hadn’t been eating properly. The anxiety about what and when he was going to tell the others had been gnawing at Lambert relentlessly for the entire trip, and Geralt had tried to keep him occupied, mainly offering himself up as a sacrifice for his wisecracks, but there was only so much filling in he could do. They were now all fragments of something greater than just themselves. They needed each other to feel completely whole.

The bard looked at Eskel next and reached across to take the hand that sat idly on the table. “You need to go and talk to Lambert, but be patient; he’s struggling to find the words, and -,” Jaskier scrubbed the sleeve of his doublet into his eyes; he’d been absolutely stalwart while in the room with Lambert, but as soon as the door had clicked closed behind him, leaving the sleeping Witcher to rest, the tears had fallen like the waters of Ceann Treise, “- he’s most worried about telling you.”

Drink forgotten, Eskel looked at Geralt, and then stood to head upstairs without another word. Jaskier sat with Geralt in silence as his footsteps retreated, and then finally. “So, when are we leaving to cut their cock and hands off?”

Geralt smiled. It was a tight, sad lilt of his lips. The sun itself was baying for blood; the sorcerers didn’t stand a chance. “You got a name then.”

“Two. Keira and Chester. A private function in Vizima. I have connections there. I’ll send my letters tomorrow morning. Eskel also has connections at Aretuza, and you with Yennefer and Triss. Together we can track them down.”

“Hmm,” Geralt knocked back the rest of his mead. “He thinks it’s his fault.”

Jaskier sighed. “Unfortunately, it’s common. Guilt. Why me? Is it something I did? Without reasons, we start looking inside for the wrong. It’s going to take a long time, Geralt. He gave someone his trust and they shattered it in the most vile way possible,” he paused. “There are things he needs to talk through but he’s too ashamed to verbalise them. From what he managed to say, I think I might have some idea, I’ll be able to just… prompt him here and there.”

Geralt nodded, and then considered the view outside the window. The village was preparing for the festival in two days’ time. Every building was loaded with streamers, flowers and miscellaneous trinkets to celebrate the year’s longest day. Lambert had talked about it the entire way here, in between appalling jokes, of course. “He’s looking forward to the festival,” Geralt smiled, properly now. It reached his eyes and Jaskier could see them glow with it. “Likes the summer shrines, the drink, the dancing, and he says the girls are always pretty.”

“Oh, it sounds like your worst nightmare, doesn’t it?”

“Mmhm.”

“I’ve missed you, Geralt,” Jaskier settled his hand over one of Geralt’s gloved ones; the tavern was essentially empty, so there was no one to scowl in disgust when he lifted it to press a kiss across the back of leather-clad fingers. “Did you find many answers?”

“Yes. And a lot more questions,” he looked down into the bottom of his tankard; there was another question underneath that one. Geralt could see it in Jaskier’s eyes and sense it in the grip of the hand over his. “I've missed you too. Can put up with the crowds to spend a few days at your side.” It would be more if they got a lead on the sorcerers, but Geralt was determined to focus on what he _definitely_ had. Four precious days of lounging in open fields surrounded by his loved ones. Jaskier could only smile fondly, his heart swelling in his chest. 

In an unspoken agreement, they stayed in the tavern for an hour or so, and Geralt repeated the stories he’d told Eskel. Jaskier was _very_ interested in the Vipers, even though the Witcher did his level best to paint them in the worst picture he possibly could. It just seemed to attract Jaskier more, and Geralt half expected him to whip out his journal to start making notes. _Ode to the Viper._ Letho would knock Geralt clean out.

After another couple of drinks, they finally grabbed the bags and headed upstairs. For a little bit extra, Eskel had managed to secure a room with a double bed, with the innkeep clearly under the impression that some people would be sleeping on the floor because there were extra blankets and pillows stacked up in the corner. It wasn’t unusual for revellers to try and save money by crowding as many friends into a room as possible during the midsummer festival, so he didn’t think anything more. _Silly innkeep._

Jaskier used the second key and quietly unlocked the door. There were no sounds coming from inside, and he peeked around the edge tentatively, before allowing the door to open properly with a quiet sigh. Eskel was curled around Lambert on the bed; head tucked under chin, back to chest and arms wound together. The small bunch of purple flowers sat in a chipped jug of water on the bedside table, and it was these that Eskel was staring at as Lambert slept in his arms. Their clothes were heaped in an untidy pile on the floor. Lambert had wanted skin contact. To be thoroughly consumed by a warmth and scent that had made him feel safe for decades. Eskel hadn’t questioned it. 

Jaskier and Geralt shed their clothes quietly and slotted in around the edges; the final pieces falling into place. Jaskier draped himself against Eskel’s broad back, his arm wrapped across his waist to rest his fingers on Lambert’s hip, and Geralt laid on his side at their front. He could see the fury burning behind the amber eyes opposite and he reached forward to take the fist pushed down into the mattress. The fingers slowly unclenched and pushed through Geralt’s grip to tuck behind his head and pull their foreheads together. 

Eskel was searching for strength in the depths of Geralt’s eyes, because the knowledge that someone had violated the man in his arms had just torn his heart to pieces. He wanted nothing more than to pull Scorpion out of the stables, ride to Aretuza and burn it to the ground. Sorcerers and sorceresses kept hurting his family, and he was done with it. Geralt tilted his head to place the lightest kiss on Eskel’s lips, before dropping back to the pillow and lifting an arm to drape across the sleeping man between them. _Lambert first, revenge later._ Eskel nodded and closed his eyes.

Wrapped in the arms of his pack, Lambert slept peacefully.

***

For the majority of the next day, Jaskier sat with Lambert in one of the meadows. The Witcher didn’t do a lot of talking at first, he pawed at the flowers and looked into the big, blue sky as if the words were floating up there, far beyond his reach. Occasionally he drank some water from the skin at his hip, or picked over some of the sweet pastries they had bought from Lower Posada. The bard sat up against him and strummed lazily at his lute, talking about any inane nonsense that popped into his head. 

When Lambert wanted to talk, Jaskier listened, and when the Witcher fell into his arms to snooze for the afternoon, Jaskier held him. It was enough for him to feel comfortable and loved, even if he could still only talk about what happened in euphemism and broken sentences. Eskel and Geralt remained at a respectable distance, despite Eskel’s burning need to be wrapped around all three of them at the same time. The compromise to keep him occupied was that he and Geralt rode between Lower and Upper Posada to begin restocking Lambert’s supplies. Between the two villages, they managed to acquire a respectable number of alchemy supplies, a new bedroll and some basic care items. It would be enough to get him back to Kaer Morhen, because he definitely wasn’t continuing on the Path this season. They sent a message ahead to Vesemir. Lambert would be angry, but would eventually forgive them. 

The evening before festivities were due to begin, Jaskier grabbed Eskel and hauled him upstairs while Geralt was busy losing to Lambert at cards. With the door closed behind him, he sat down on the foot of the bed and patted the space next to him. “Got a Lambert update,” he waited for Eskel to sit down. “Good news. He has told me that being with us is better than doing the fighting circuits, so I think that’s come to an end.”

“Geralt told me he was in a bad state when he found him,” Eskel sighed. “He still hasn’t said how long ago it happened. Could’ve been weeks, months. I keep thinking about what would’ve happened if he’d taken a contract -.”

“Yes, but the main thing is that he _didn’t_ and he’s _here._ So,” Jaskier ran his hand down Eskel’s arm, “stop worrying yourself about that, because there are things you can actually change to think about.”

“News on the sorcerers?”

“Not yet. The letters won’t have arrived. There is a more pressing matter though. He’s struggling with the idea that his body reacted to it. He thinks that means he gave consent. I’m assuming any kind of sexual education at Kaer Morhen was limited to ‘this goes in here and don’t do it if she’s not into it’, with a few bawdy tales from other Witchers on the side?”

“If that,” Eskel’s face dropped into his hands. “Geralt and I read a romance novel. That was the beginning of ours, and even then some of the logistics weren’t entirely clear.”

Jaskier couldn’t help the barked laugh, and quickly clapped his hands over his face. “No, no, you can’t just _drop that on me._ Where is this novel? No, hang on, you’re distracting me,” he paused to collect himself, making a very firm mental note to turn over the chaos of Kaer Morhen’s library until he found this book, “the point is, he thinks that because he _reacted_ , he deserved it. I’ve explained to him why that’s not the case, but he still says he feels unclean, like he can still feel _him_. Not her, oddly. I didn’t push it though. I think we’re lucky in that he doesn’t seem to be frightened of being intimate with us. I mean it could have - _anyway_ ,” Jaskier paused again, taking in a deep breath; this was having a huge emotional toll and his head was rather all over the place, “he says being close to us is helping ‘scrub it from his skin’, his words. Not mine. So - hmm - there’s that.”

Eskel leaned over and pulled Jaskier into his lap and nuzzled into the crook of his neck. “Thank you. I’m not sure he would’ve told us any of this without you here.”

“He would’ve told you eventually, I think I’m just a bit less intimidating. He’s seen me covered in my own piss and sweat, blathering like an idiot,” Jaskier tilted his head back and closed his eyes as that nuzzle turned into gentle kisses. “He doesn’t want to be treated any differently. But… just keep an eye out, and a nose.” He dabbed the side of Eskel’s nose as he said it, fingers quickly withdrawing as the Witcher snapped at them playfully. “Maybe an ear too.” _Tweak._ “Urf!” Thrown unceremoniously onto the bed, Jaskier tried to wriggle free before Eskel could pin him, but failed. _Oh the humanity._ Head thrown back, he squirmed in delight when Eskel’s mouth found his throat, and then his chest, and then his stomach, and then… “Sweet mother of - !”

***

The celebrations were a welcome distraction. With their swords and armour safely locked away in their room, the Witchers were able to more-or-less blend in with the crowd. Most of the revellers were too drunk to notice by the time evening came ‘round anyway. The medallions at their chest vibrated as a local witch performed her ritual to bless the crops. She made sure there were some pretty lights and a bit of stick wagging to make it look effective, and the villagers cheered. Jaskier was with Lambert ogling the spectacle, and Geralt and Eskel hung back on the top of a small hill, sprawled back on their elbows with a brimming tankard of mead each.

The silence was companionable. Eskel sat close enough for their legs to touch, and occasionally Geralt flicked out a hand to run the backs of his fingers down the side of Eskel’s forearm. It was just _nice._ Nice to have him close, nice to have the actual scent of him permeating each deep breath. Geralt’s eyes wandered back over, tracing the flickering line of the nearby firelight down the contours of Eskel’s face and neck; his shirt was open quite low and Geralt’s fingers twitched with the urge to run over the dusting of dark hair on his chest… “If you keep staring at me like that, I’m going to have to take you to bed now.”

Geralt raised an eyebrow. “Wasn’t staring.” Followed by a mouthful of mead.

“You were,” Eskel tilted his head, a smug little grin fully established. “You’re not very discreet. I know exactly _who_ you're thinking about just by following your gaze. This morning you thought about Lambert solidly for about two hours, and at lunch-time you were mostly thinking about Jaskier, mainly his hands and the way they worked his lute.”

Geralt narrowed his eyes, brow set, and then grunted. “Hmm. Well, get used to it,” he shifted, and a jab in the thigh reminded him of the present he had stashed in his pocket. “I got you something in Nazair.” With a little bit of wriggling, he managed to pull the small package free and pass it across.

“A compass.” Eskel placed the paper aside. A beautiful compass, certainly. The brass shell was intricately carved with vines and, “Larks.” Another one of those grins and Geralt just huffed. A bright gold arrow sat against an obsidian black background, and Eskel furrowed his brow. “It’s not pointing north.”

“Hmm,” Geralt smiled, and when Eskel looked up at him, he saw that his eyes were afire. “Where is it pointing?”

Eskel glanced over his shoulder. “East.”

“It’s still on the last setting. Needs adjusting.” Geralt shifted a little closer and cupped his hand carefully around Eskel’s fingers until his own just touched the brass. “Lambert.” The arrow spun in a full circle, and then came to a tremoring stop pointing at…

“Fuck.” Eskel’s eyes widened as he looked between the compass in his hand and the Witcher still chatting away with Jaskier at the shrine. Their medallions hummed briefly before fading back into stillness; it was barely a breath of magic. “Vesemir.” Again, the arrow swung around and finally settled more or less directly north. Kaer Morhen. “Geralt, I - this - I -.”

“It will only work for the five of us. You can’t just say anyone and track them down. Something like that really would be priceless, but, I’ve been assured this is fairly -.” He was cut off as Eskel pushed him to the ground with a rather fierce kiss. High up on the hill at the edges of the festivities, they were relatively out of the way and most would probably take a glance and think they were wrestling, but Geralt still gave Eskel a light shove on the shoulder. Light, because in reality, he really didn’t want it to end. “ _Eskel_. Wasn’t planning on getting hanged this summer.”

“Sorry, fuck, I just - the last few days have been a bit -,” Eskel sat up and gazed down at the compass in his hand, “thank you. I don’t have anything for you.”

Geralt knew he was purring. He could feel it rumbling in his chest. It was one of those things that he very rarely did and it was always _very_ quiet, but he knew the gravity of his gift, and it had gone down exactly as he had wanted it to. He had eighty years of making Eskel happy to catch up on, and each step forward was a win. “Mm. You do, but you can’t really get it out now.” 

Eskel laughed. “You're a lecherous old fuck.” He fell onto his back and Geralt flopped down next to him. 

A few hours later they stirred to get themselves some more mead, and while they exchanged their tankards, Lambert and Jaskier bounded up. More specifically, Jaskier was now more than pleasantly tipsy and had decided that the best way to get around was on Lambert’s back and the Witcher, also starting to feel a little fuzzy at the edges, had agreed. Eskel smirked, “Having fun?”

“Of course. I have the finest mead on the Continent, many beautiful young men and women, scintillating conversation, _and_ my noble steed,” Jaskier toasted his mostly empty tankard at them, glanced into the bottom and then waved it pointedly at Geralt. His legs were wrapped just above Lambert’s hips, and one arm slanted very loosely across his chest.

“Noble steed?” Geralt swapped the empty for a full one, which Jaskier promptly began to neck. 

Lambert nodded. “The noblest.” 

“The noblest!” Jaskier bellowed. “The stallion of heaven, the steed of the skies, the horse of the singer, who sings as he flies! Onwards, noble steed, I spy some very fair young maidens who seem thoroughly bored with their evening.” The bard gestured with his drink and Lambert ran off. The young women in question were soon giggling and blushing as between them Lambert and Jaskier regaled them with antics and jokes. When the Witcher span, Jaskier started singing a eulogy to some long lost elven queen, and every young person around him was enthralled.

“Well, fuck,” Geralt rubbed his eyes. “Is Lambert in love?”

“Oh yeah. Did I tell you that Jaskier serenaded him in the grand hall?”

“No,” Geralt smirked. “Tell me everything.”

***

Alcohol, summer heat and smiles really only ever ended in one way. Well, as far as Jaskier was concerned, there was only one _right_ way. Climbing one of his Witchers like a damned tree and taking them to bed. Geralt barely managed to get through the door of their room before Jaskier’s arms were around his neck and his legs around his hips. “Are you even sober enough for this?”

“Geralt, don’t talk. Just kiss. Just… _yes, yes, right there, yes, fuck.”_ Geralt’s face buried against his neck as they approached the bed.

Eskel dropped his arm from Lambert’s shoulders long enough for them to both get through the door, and promptly shoved it closed behind them. The night was stuffy and close, and Eskel kicked his boots off and stripped his shirt straight away. He stopped when he caught the shine of Lambert’s eyes, wide and anxious. “Hey, I’m not expecting anything.” He ran the backs of his fingers down Lambert’s bicep. “You alright?” 

Lambert swallowed, eyes flickering from Eskel to the two bodies writhing together in the centre of the bed. Jaskier had knotted his hands in Geralt’s hair, occasionally bemoaning the _lack_ of hair compared to what he was used to, but otherwise gasping encouragement as Geralt worked through his clothes. “Yeah, I’m fine… I mean, if you want to - don’t not - I can - uh.” Strong fingers took his and tugged him insistently, until Lambert was pressed to Eskel’s chest, his jaw cupped in one broad palm.

“Can I kiss you?” Their faces barely inches apart, Eskel watched as Lambert’s pupils spread slowly, and caught the first warm scents of interest under the anxiety. (“Geralt, I swear if you rip my breeches you are buying me some n--, ahh, yes, right there, do _that again_ , fuck.”)

“Yeah - please.” Soft lips, a gentle, exploratory tongue that requested rather than demanded, and Lambert felt himself go a bit weak in the knees. One hand smoothed through the light dusting of dark chest hair while the other gripped one broad shoulder for purchase. He pushed lightly and Eskel moved, so he pushed a little more, until he had Eskel pinned against a wall and the kiss was his to control. Those big hands were inert, and that wasn’t fucking right, so Lambert took one and slipped it beneath his shirt at his waist. _Better._ “Fuck… touch me, please. Just…” Gasped against Eskel’s lips, and thank the fucking gods, he obliged. Warm palms slid under Lambert’s shirt and pulled it over his head, and then proceeded to grip and knead and _touch_ and Lambert felt just a _little bit_ purer. (“On your knees, bard.” “Please growl at me like that forever. _Forever, Geralt.”_ ) 

“Easy, slow down…” Eskel took his chin and tilted it up, breaking their kiss. “We can do this all night. Just this. Is that what you want?”

“Yeah. I - I want that. This. I -,” Lambert buried his face into Eskel’s chest, rubbing through the dried sweat from an evening spent in the sultry summer heat, the pheromones of arousal and the warm scent of Eskel himself, deep and rich. Eskel wanted him though. He could smell it. _Good._ He wasn’t too dirty for him, too used, Eskel still desired him. That was… _yeah, good._

“Alright, c’mon. Let’s get a good view of that and we can make out all night like teenagers.” Eskel grinned, took Lambert’s hand and tugged him over to a stack of blankets and pillows. They scattered them into a wider pile - Eskel pausing to smack Lambert over the head with one and receiving just retaliation moments later - before flopping down on top. Lambert ended up straddling Eskel’s hips, leaning over him, and he could feel the hardness press up between his legs. But that was fine. Because Eskel had said just this. And Eskel would never hurt him. The hands that moved over his sides and up his back made their promise in long, languid strokes that urged him closer. (“Nnngh--aahhh.”)

Eskel tilted his head and watched Jaskier’s face disintegrate as Geralt pushed inside him; smooth skin sheened in sweat, brown hair plastered to his head and blue eyes aglow. _Beautiful._ The passion with which Lambert kissed him soon made them both as sweaty as the two on the bed - deep, wanting, seeking reassurance that he was still very much wanted - and eventually they both folded on top of the pillows and blankets in a tangle of limbs, watching Geralt undo their bard through half-lidded eyes. The symphony of grunts and moans better than any of the music still playing in the streets outside.

Lambert purred.


	5. Keira

Kissing Eskel was _good._ Lambert had never appreciated just _how good._ They hadn’t done it a lot. Usually there was a bit at the beginning more recently, but before that none really at all. Everything _tingled_ , and Lambert often found that his toes were curling in delight, and he shivered when those big hands stroked through his hair and down his neck. He really understood why Buttercup wanted to do it all the time; they used to spend _ages_ kissing when he was working off his high between them. Didn’t mind. The bard got all flushed, and he always smelled _really_ good. Of happiness, and lust, and love. All Jaskier things. Except they were also Eskel things - and Geralt things now, which was fucking weird, really - and Lambert always felt slightly drunk on them when they were finished. 

It was a hot afternoon. The fourth day since they’d arrived. With the village beginning to thin out now after the festival, the Witchers were starting to feel a little more conspicuous, so they followed the Dyfne towards the Blue Mountains and found a comfortable spot with shade and plush grass to while away some time in peace. The nearby water was running a little brisker this close to the source and it kept the air around them fresher. Jaskier was strumming away happily on his lute by the riverbank, occasionally kicking water at Geralt who swam lazily on his back. In the shade of the trees, Lambert lay next to Eskel on his back, his head on one thick bicep. He was searching the canopy for nothing in particular, the majority of his focus on the fingers that traced lazy circles across his chest and abdomen. 

“Do you still want to fuck me?” 

Eskel blinked, apparently lost in his own reverie while he idly traced the soft hair and scarred skin of Lambert’s torso, and then looked down between them to the permanent erection he had been sporting since Lambert had decided he wanted to spend a few hours every day in his gods-damned mouth. Not _doing_ anything about it was making his balls ache, but that was another issue entirely. “Pretty certain. Why?”

“No reason.”

“That’s bullshit,” Eskel curled his arm up to push Lambert’s face towards him, eyebrows raised. “Talk.”

“You just haven’t - uh, you haven’t pushed for anything else. I thought you’d get bored, or maybe you weren’t really interested anymore and - and, uh… I’m hard as well. So, isn’t that - ?”

“Hmm,” Eskel lifted the palm from Lambert’s chest to tilt his chin, because the Witcher wasn’t looking at him. “Why would I have the right to push anything?”

“You - you’ve literally tied me up and fucked me until I screamed with - uh - because it was pretty good, so -,” he tried to look away again, but his head was now wedged in place between Eskel’s raised forearm and the fingers tucked under his jaw.

“We could’ve fucked a hundred times in a hundred different ways. Doesn’t give me an automatic pass, Lambert. Not until you actually tell me. You said you wanted to kiss, so that’s what we’re doing,” Eskel’s eyes trailed away briefly to Jaskier’s back. The bard was close enough to listen, but he was pretending he couldn’t hear and instead kicked another small tidal wave over Geralt’s head. He was playing with fire there. They were going to be carrying home a soggy bard. Eskel would put money on it. But more importantly, Eskel remembered their conversation in the tavern. “Have you ever been bitten by a succubus mid-fight?”

Lambert smirked. “Yeah.”

“And you got a hard on.”

“Yeah,” Lambert paused. “And what?”

“Did you want to fuck the succubus?”

“Eww, fuck no. Look, I know you have, and I can respect that, but -.”

Eskel rolled his eyes. “Not the point,” he shifted, dropping his arm back down to the floor and shifting his other hand back to Lambert’s chest. “The poison gives you a hard on, because that’s what it’s meant to do. Same with an incubus, in fact. Not many of those around anymore. But she needs you to be hard so she can fuck you and you’ll probably come because that’s her entire design, doesn’t mean you want it, right?” Most of the poor bastards Eskel had met after they’d fallen under a succubus’ thrall were shrivelled and dry, sobbing and begging for mercy, but she’d still been trying to ring the last few drops out of them.

“Right.” Lambert wasn’t slow. He was drawing the parallels, and Eskel watched him work through it in the minor twitches of facial muscles and the thoughtful haze in his eyes. “But it was different.”

“No. It wasn’t. Same chemicals stimulated in your body by the succubus bite would have been stimulated with the actions of your - the -,” Eskel paused. “The bastards that touched you. Particularly inside.” A sigh. “You need to stop beating yourself up over it. You didn’t want it. Didn’t enjoy it. There’s only one way to give consent. ‘Eskel, I would like you to touch my cock, please’, or… similar. You need to be able to say yes, or no, and if you can’t do both, then it shouldn’t be happening. They took both away from you and -, that’s not down to you, that’s on them, and -.” He wasn’t trained for this. Hoped to whatever god was listening that he wasn’t making it worse.

“Hmm,” Lambert shifted on the grass, still gazing up at the canopy as he considered the parallel. It made sense. There was a concrete, logical link there, not just comforting words. He could get behind that. Still felt… _used._ Difficult to put it into words. The idea that someone had got what they wanted out of him, and then cast him away like a used pair of braies. Eskel’s explanation made _sense_ , but it didn’t make all the feelings miraculously disappear. It _did_ give him a tenable anchor to work with though. In fact, the more time he spent in Dol Blathanna with this bunch of idiots, the fainter his discomfort became. The only areas that still felt _wrong_ were the areas he hadn’t even touched himself in months other than to wash. Parts that pretty much ached for Eskel, Jaskier and _fuck_ , even Geralt, especially when he was all sleep-tousled in the morning. No one had the right to look _good_ when they woke up, with a massive erection he just nonchalantly swaggered across the room with. _Fucking Geralt._

There was one _logical_ step to take. Lambert cleared his throat, “Eskel, I would like you to touch my cock, please.” 

Eskel blinked again, the hand circling on Lambert’s chest stilled. “Are you sure?”

“Don’t you want to?”

“Do you even _know_ who you’re talking to?” Eskel smirked, and circled his fingers a little lower until they were stroking the narrow trail of hair at Lambert’s navel. “You change your mind, you say. At any point.”

“Usual word?”

A chuckle. That was both a request and a question. “Yeah. Usual word.” Eskel took Lambert’s left wrist and held it firmly by his head, while he nestled his right arm between their bodies. “Alright?”

Lambert shifted a little closer, his forearm pressed to the bulge in the front of Eskel’s breeches, and twisted his wrist in the strong fingers that held it. Partly pinned by himself, with a small reminder of Eskel’s control over him. It sat right in the sweet spot. “Mm. Yeah.”

A kiss, slow and tender, as Eskel slid his fingers down to Lambert’s waistband and carefully plucked open the ties of his trousers. Firm fingertips pushed over his groin and Lambert lifted his hips into them with a quiet groan. Eskel broke the kiss to watch Lambert’s eyes with a faint smile. “Shame I didn’t come prepared.” A bit of oil and he would’ve undone Lambert in all of about two minutes.

“Mmph. I’ve done fine all these years.” Lambert mumbled, his eyes already half-lidded as Eskel worked a hand up his shaft. “Just… yeah, like that.” He was just teasing. Working his foreskin, massaging the bundle of nerves at the back of the head with the sides of his fingers, reminding Lambert of how good it felt to be touched with reverence and care. The Witcher flushed down his chest, hips lifting sporadically into Eskel’s palm. He gasped into wet, open kisses and tilted his head back when lips and teeth sought out his throat.

“My beautiful boy,” a soft purr, “so beautiful. Safe now, here with me. Does this feel good?”

“Y - yes.” The pace was picking up, and Lambert fought to keep himself still. He tested the grip on his wrist and when it held firm a small thrill coiled in his chest. _Safe, with Eskel._

“Do you want this?”

“Yes.” 

“Keep telling me, I want to hear it.”

Lambert moaned Eskel’s name, underpinned with breathy sighs of encouragement; enthusiastic consent. He wanted to close his eyes, but also wanted to look at Eskel's face _and_ see what was happening to his cock all at the same time; he ended up with his head tilted against the nearest shoulder with one eye open, relishing the feeling of being _held_. He drew his heels up so they dug in the ground and thrust up into Eskel’s grip. 

Now, obviously, Jaskier had been paying _all of his attention_ to what was going on behind him, and now he couldn’t help but turn and watch. Mouth falling open unabashedly at the sight of the two Witchers coiled around each other. Beautiful, and wanton. Eskel was grinning, one leg extended to wrap around Lambert’s nearest to keep his hips under control, and provide something else for him to thrust and squirm against to test his restraints. When Lambert came the view only got better, he shivered and gasped, whimpering helplessly as Eskel worked him through the aftershocks. “Eskel, fuck. S-stop, I -.” Hand withdrawn, Eskel leaned down to press a gentle kiss to damp lips. _And then,_ he looked directly at Jaskier while he licked Lambert’s spend off his fingers with long, drawn out laps of his tongue. Full eye contact. The bard’s jaw nearly hit the floor, breeches _far_ too tight.

Two golden eyes watched Jaskier from the water, surrounded by a halo of white hair on the surface; they drew closer without causing a single sound. The lute was on the riverbank, and its owner was very much distracted by Eskel. _Finally, my time has come._ Geralt extended a hand slowly from the water, snagged the foot that had been splashing him for the last hour and dragged Jaskier into the river. The yelp was satisfying. Very satisfying. Geralt was already laughing heartily - a big, booming sound from deep in his chest - when Jaskier erupted to the surface, “You damned siren! You - you drowner! I could’ve - died,” he couldn’t keep up the pretence of annoyance, words broken with chuckles as he watched Geralt laugh, “fine, I was feeling rather warm anyway. You could have at least let me take my gods-damned clothes off.”

“Hmm,” Geralt dropped down until his chin was barely above the surface. “I can help with that.”

***

By the time they arrived back to their room, the sun was setting and they were all ready to pile onto the bed and sleep for twelve hours on top of each other. So it was a real shame when Eskel stopped suddenly by the door, and then simultaneously all three Witchers touched their chests with their fingertips. _Medallion._ “Shit, what - ?” Jaskier looked between them, and Eskel placed a finger across his own lips while the other hand curled around the door handle. Lambert’s fingers were already twitching into the shape of a sign, and they burst in together.

Eskel growled, and heaved an irritable sigh as he caught sight of the man sitting at the window. “Garstrang.”

The sorcerer was… stunning. Jaskier couldn’t help but stare for a good two minutes. Golden hair pulled back behind his head in a loose tail revealed high, aristocratic cheekbones and a defined jawline. His eyes were the most stunning blue and his pink, cupid-bow lips were pursed in the most salacious pout. “Eskel. Really? You haven’t seen me in _how long_ and that’s the way you greet me. Getting bad-tempered in your middle age, my dear Witcher.”

“Middle? Thinking of killing me off in the next hundred years, are you?” Eskel was uncomfortable. Jaskier could see that instantly. He didn’t like having this man in his space, or perhaps around his loved ones; the bard couldn’t quite tell, and before he could investigate Eskel spoke again, “I take it you got my letter. You could’ve waited for us downstairs.”

“Yes, I could have, but it is ever so grotty down there, and I didn’t want to leave these lying around,” Garstrang tapped an ornate box on the writing desk next to Eskel’s pack. “Aren’t you going to introduce me to your…?” He fluttered a hand around at the other three in the room; the kind of gesture one made when referring to _lesser_ beings and Jaskier hated him instantly.

“Geralt, Lambert, Jaskier,” Eskel indicated each quickly in turn, “this is Garstrang. Sorcerer, philanderer and general pain in the ass.”

“Hmm. Didn’t ever hear you complain about _that._ ”

Eskel’s look said ‘shut up or die’ and the sorcerer’s mouth shut with an audible click. The Witcher approached the desk and unclipped the latches on the side of the box. Garstrang looked visibly uncomfortable and moved several paces away. “Dimertrium cuffs,” Eskel murmured, allowing the lid to close after a brief inspection. “You found them.”

Lambert, who had been eyeing the sorcerer with the same expression as one examined a piece of faeces on the bottom of one’s shoe, now sat down on the edge of the bed and looked off into the middle distance. Jaskier, sensing his distress, settled down close by and pulled a hand into his lap.

“Yes. Keira resides in a horrid little shack just northeast of the village of Midcopse, and Chester is currently stirring up trouble in Novigrad. He enjoys toying with the Eternal Fire, because he’s a moron,” the sorcerer glanced at Lambert then and had the good grace to regret his understatement, “the council at Aretuza are aware of Keira’s experiment and they have condemned them both. We’ve dealt with the others at the party, but we bow to your desire for justice. Please accept these as a… show of good faith.” He indicated the cuffs.

“The council are aware that the penalty is death,” Geralt propped himself against the wall, arms folded over his chest.

“Yes. They are aware. Eskel’s letter, although very eloquent, made that exceptionally clear.” Garstrang smiled brightly at the Witcher in question and actually looked a little _put out_ when it wasn’t returned. “There is the little matter of the potion recipe.” 

“It’ll be destroyed,” Eskel’s voice was low and dangerous.

Not the answer the sorcerer was hoping for, and he didn’t seem to understand the _finality_ of Eskel’s tone. “If anyone were to replicate it, we would have no idea what we were up ag--.”

“Don’t lie, Garstrang. You’re shit at it.” Eskel approached the bed and seated himself next to Lambert, ducking his head to catch the other’s eyes, and essentially dismissed the sorcerer as an irritant.

There was that pout again. A full body flounce. Garstrang was unaccustomed to being ignored. “You can’t blame a man for trying,” he walked forward slowly, right into Eskel’s personal space, and lifted a hand towards the scars on his cheek. “You know, it’s such a shame. You were ever so handsome.” 

Jaskier wasn’t aware of his brain making the decision to punch a sorcerer - one of the most dangerous beings to walk the Continent - in the face. It just happened. One moment he was sitting on the edge of the bed, stroking his fingers gently across the back of Lambert’s hand, and the next he had risen, taken a single step forward and smashed his knuckles across one of those pompously regal cheekbones. Geralt lurched off the wall to pull him away and Eskel raised his hand for a Quen shield. The bard thrashed and spat, “How dare you! Better scars on the skin than scars on the soul, you wretched creature. How - Geralt, let me go! They think they can say and do anything they want - I - I won’t stand for it! I will not! How dare he - let me - Geralt!”

Thankfully, Garstrang was just as shocked as everyone else in the room, and blinked down at the blood in his hand from where Jaskier had caught his nose in passing, before glancing up with a startled laugh. Without the need for a Quen shield, the two remaining Witchers without a murderous Jaskier bound up in their arms dropped their hands. “Well. It seems your bard is quite feral, Eskel.” 

“Just the way I like him. Now fuck off back to Aretuza.” 

The sorcerer raised his hands and stepped away. “Good hunting, Witchers.” An errant flick of the wrist spun up a portal, and he disappeared through it without another word.

Jaskier and Geralt stood panting for several moments. Lambert was looking at Jaskier with _hunger_ , and Eskel just looked tired.

The bard spoke first. “Four days. You spent _four days_ in bed with that man. How did you not _strangle_ him? I mean, at least when you were _finished._ You would’ve been doing the world a favour.” 

Eskel coughed and decidedly _didn’t_ look at Geralt, his golden eyes glittering with amusement as they were. “I was young and impressionable,” he approached the desk then to examine the cuffs a little more closely. “And he has -.”

“A good dick and pretty eyes.” Lambert piped up, and then flopped onto the bed in breathless hysterics, because _fuck_ it was funny and his head was in absolute fucking _ribbons_ right now. So he just laughed because that emotion was easy, straightforward and right there. Jaskier rolled his eyes and fell down next to him.

With the other two occupied, Geralt sidled up to Eskel, because there was a fervour to his scent that had started shortly after Jaskier had punched the sorcerer. He propped his rear on the edge of the desk, arms folded across his chest. “Pretty eyes?

“No, Geralt. No. Just. No.” Eskel held up a finger, and then started to pack his belongings with frustrated vehemence. That conversation was one that _could_ wait another eighty years. But Geralt wasn’t finished, he left the desk and slowly wrapped his arms around Eskel’s waist, pulling him back until his chest was flush with a tense back. He didn’t _do_ anything, just rested his chin on a broad shoulder and breathed deeply, and slowly he felt the tightness in Eskel’s posture ease.

“Hmm,” he drew in a deep sigh, nosing into the side of Eskel’s neck. “Did you teach Jaskier to throw a punch?”

“No. He was like that when I found him. Why?” A pause and Eskel canted his hips back just a touch and his backside found what he expected; a mirror of his own _issue_ after watching Jaskier lay down the law in his defence. He smirked, “Geralt of Rivia, you are a man after my own heart.”

“Shall we?”

“We shall.” 

Jaskier rather enjoyed his evening.

***

It took them the best part of a week and a half to reach Redania. They went via Hagge and so circumvented the added hurdle of the Mahakham mountains and their werebbubb problem. Travelling with three Witchers was quite the experience. Jaskier had been too unwell to enjoy it the last time, but now he could revel in the feeling of absolute safety it afforded. There wasn’t a bandit or monster on the entire Continent that would dare come within twenty yards, and Jaskier slept soundly beneath the stars curled up in their midst. Lambert was understandably quiet and withdrawn, and even Eskel couldn’t pry him from his shell with gentle kisses, so they just ensured someone was always within proximity. _There_. Even if he was lost in his own thoughts.

The first stop: Midcopse. The _plan_ : simple. “We burn it all.” Eskel murmured as he strapped his swords to his back and tugged a dancing star bomb from his saddle bag.

“Agreed.” Geralt murmured. There was no love lost between himself and Keira after his dealings with her and Fringilla a couple of years prior. _Oh he remembered that._ It had been no surprise that she had been behind what happened to Lambert. He glanced at the man in question, who stood next to Jaskier, “You ready?” 

“Yeah. Stay back here, Buttercup.” Lambert ran a gloved hand over Jaskier’s head and followed his brothers down the slope towards the ramshackle hut currently hiding the traitorous bitch. Once the sorceress to King Foltest himself. How the mighty had fallen. Their medallions were already humming against their chests as they stepped through the herb garden, so there was definitely someone home. 

Eskel kicked the door down after trying the handle only briefly, and the wood shattered against the far wall. The whispering wind of a portal to their left alerted them to her current absence, and the Witchers used the opportunity to toss the room for notes. Lambert tore through trunks, and eventually found the secret panel he was looking for beneath a threadbare rug. With Geralt’s help, he torched the contents of the room beneath; notes, alchemy ingredients, trinkets. _Everything._ He wanted nothing of this woman to survive him. 

As they burned the final stack of books, they heard the whip crack of Eskel’s Aard and a startled scream. Geralt leapt onto the ladder first and Lambert ascended close at his heels, but they needn’t have worried. Eskel had caught her by surprise and held her by the hair now, her face bloodied from where she had collided with the wall; the dimeritium shackles were already wrapped about her wrists, sending sickly, purple veins leeching up her arms. 

“Lambert!” A screech. “Darling, what is - ? What’s the meaning of this?” She retched and groaned as Eskel gave her a shake and the shackles on her wrists rubbed over her skin. 

Lambert stood in front of her in silence for a moment. No anger, no outrage, just a passive melancholy. Even after all that she had done, he still couldn’t quite find it in his heart to… _hate_ her. Perhaps it was the remnants of his own self-loathing. The idea that he somehow deserved what happened, either through his own stupidity or his own failings. It was fading. But still there. Like a toxic infection inside his head, and it stymied his righteous fury like a cork in a wine bottle. When he spoke, his tone was level. “Tell me why. Why did you lie to me?”

“I didn’t, I -.” She _started_ the lie and then felt Eskel’s fingers tighten in her hair. Best to change tac to survive this, or so she believed. “I thought you would enjoy it. Then when you were gone in the morning, I just thought you’d returned to the Path, I didn’t get a chance to explain, or apologise, whatever you wanted.”

“Apologise?” Lambert’s eyebrows raised, incredulous. Slowly he knelt down in front of her, their faces merely inches apart. “You took away my free will, and then let one of your friends beat the shit out of me, and -,” he clenched his teeth, looked off to the side. Still couldn’t actually _say_ the words. Just. Couldn’t. The silence stretched as Lambert considered the far wall, listening to the rustle of the wind through the trees outside and the chirp of nesting birds. So strange how the world continued to exist outside your own turmoil. You were just an insignificant part of something bigger, and yet your problems always felt so… _big._ So crushing.

She thought he’d _enjoy_ it. Because he was less than an animal? He thought about asking her, and then just shrugged it away. _Humans were all the fucking same._ They used, abused and discarded for their own needs. Vicious, selfish, unfeeling. Her answer would reflect that. No truth or revelation to be found there. “I know if I asked you whether you’d duplicated the notes, you’d lie to me, so this conversation is over,” a heavy sigh. “Goodbye, Keira.” The trophy knife slid through the bottom of her jaw like a hot knife through wax. Deliberately slow, Lambert watched life fade from her eyes like the sputtering flame of the very same candle. Blood slowly soaked down the hilt as she gurgled, but he yanked the blade free before his fingers could become saturated.

Geralt and Eskel followed him outside once they had freed her arms from the shackles, and Lambert stood with his hands on his hips, gazing up into the cloudless sky. “Thought justice was meant to feel all warm and fuzzy,” he murmured. “This feels like bullshit.” And then to Geralt. “Is this what you feel all the time? When you go about playing the hero?”

“In my experience, being the hero just means enduring endless piles of bullshit,” he paused. “Usually other people's. Against your will. Without pay.” Relentless piles of said bullshit had turned Geralt into the man he was. People saw gruff, emotionless and harsh. But he had to build those walls so high, because otherwise those people would have access to his heart, and it just couldn't take any more abuse. Thankfully there was a little gatehouse now that accepted passes from only four people; two here, one up on the hill trying to convince Roach that she didn't _need_ that lush crop of grass at the bottom of the hill. _Naughty Roach._ And Ciri.

“Hmm.” Lambert turned back to the hut and rolled his shoulders. “Good job we’re Witchers then, isn’t it?”

Eskel smirked. “Right.”

They turned and cast Igni together. The resulting inferno consumed the hut in seconds, blowing out the windows and sending different coloured smoke billowing into the sky as alchemical ingredients burned. Jaskier passed the reins of Scorpion and Roach to their respective owners, and then Lambert took his chin in his unbloodied hand. 

“Hmm. Maybe not all the same.”

Jaskier smiled at him, because that seemed like the right thing to do at the time, and that seemed to please Lambert because he placed a light kiss on the bard’s lips before he headed back towards the main path leading through Midcopse. _One down, one to go._


	6. Chester

In his youth, Jaskier had thought Novigrad to be quite beautiful in its own way. Wrapped in impenetrable walls designed by academics at Oxenfurt University, it offered both freedom and protection to the wily young scoundrel in search of adventure and mischief. He had spent many a ‘reading week’ stumbling about its narrow streets, drunk, clutching the arm of someone pretty. The tall stone buildings, adorned with the flapping red flags with their silver ring and free golden keys gave the city a sense of regality, even if the pungent odour of industry hung in the background like an invisible smog. _The proud, industrious Free City of Novigrad._

But that mystique had faded. Quite a lot now that Jaskier truly reflected. He walked the cobblestones at his Witchers’ sides and saw through the grandeur to the limbless beggars and bedraggled prostitutes, thin and starving, ignored by the passing merchantmen and the white-robed priests spouting vitriol from their soap boxes. Walking the Path at the sides of Witchers, the war, it had clearly had a bigger impact on his outlook than he realised. He sighed, “They preach about the dangers of magic and nonhumans when the real evil is sitting right next to them.” 

“Hm,” Geralt put a hand on his shoulder with a light squeeze. _Agreed._

Their slow amble through the city ended at the Golden Sturgeon, with Roach and Scorpion safely stabled with some well-earned hay and an attentive young stablehand who remarked that the two would make a rather fine foal. Eskel smirked at Geralt, who just cast the poor, unknowing stallion a menacing glare as he walked out of the stall. Jaskier bit his tongue thoughtfully, calculating, and petted Roach’s soft nose as she nudged at his chest. “What do you think? He’s a fine enough piece of horse. Very noble. I have it on good authority that he’s a gentle soul.”

“Jaskier!”

“Coming, Geralt. Coming.”

The Witchers paused in their mission long enough to eat and bathe, and then left Jaskier on guard duty with their equipment as they headed out into the city to gather intelligence. It really wasn’t hard to find information on a mage that enjoyed antagonising the Eternal Fire, and Jaskier had barely finished a full setlist before Geralt appeared in the doorway. Predictably, he took a seat in a far corner with a mug of ale, but without his usual disapproving scowl. In fact, he listened with his head slightly tilted to the side, as he did whenever he was being particularly soft or attentive to someone. Jaskier had been the recipient of that head tilt on more than one occasion, before and after the mountain, in fact. 

“ _Softly now, close your eyes, and breathe with me for one final time, signs of life and the love that we shared, in a fleeting moment of happiness. Countless nights I have spent, so lost in you, hung on every word_ ,” Jaskier picked the strings gently, leaning back on his stool with one foot braced on the lowest rung, and sang only to Geralt. After all, this had been meant for him. The rest of the tavern faded into the background as he admired the gold in his Witcher’s eyes. “ _Sleep then comes and carries you away, and I'm left in the melancholy silence. Kiss me slowly and hold me close, think of me as your life unfolds, cherish the memories and savour the joy, that we felt as we danced through the stars_.” 

Unlike the first time they met, Jaskier’s song was met with resounding applause and plenty of coins were dropped into the palm of his hand, but he still sauntered over to Geralt’s table immediately as he had done more than two and a half decades ago. Geralt’s lips tilted in the faintest smile, “No bread this time?” 

“Oh my love, we both know it wasn’t bread the first time.” 

Geralt’s smile twitched a little bigger and the bard slipped into the chair opposite, lute across his lap. “How was the pie? I feel my voice has certainly matured with age. Perhaps a little huskier.” 

Geralt sighed. “Jaskier, that… I have no issue with your voice. I never did.”

“Oh?” This legitimately came as a shock still. For the Dancing and the Dreaming had been a fluke, right? ‘Oh’ was all Jaskier could manage.

The Witcher shifted, fingers tapping away on the table, thinking. “The outside of the pie has always been perfect. The songs about me, about the contracts - the filling - were empty of meaning and truth,” he raised a finger when Jaskier opened his mouth to protest. “Your love songs are full of both. I can hear your heart in them. I liked this... pie. Very much.” The smile that flourished across Jaskier’s face like a mini sunrise informed Geralt that he had done well; he sat back with a pleased ‘hmm’ and rewarded himself with a large mouthful of ale. 

Before Jaskier could tease more praise out of his favourite grumpy puss, Eskel and Lambert ducked through the door and threw themselves into the two seats either side. Eskel grinned at the pink flush colouring the tips of Jaskier’s ears, and then took Geralt’s drink out of his hand to finish it for him. Geralt looked distinctly unimpressed, side-eyeing Eskel with a silent promise of retribution later.

“I take it you found something useful.” Jaskier shifted his lute onto the floor.

Lambert growled. “Yeah, he’s staying in the Nowhere Inn. Hosts little get-togethers right under the Eternal Fire’s nose. There’s one tonight.”

“Excellent. What’s the plan?”

Eskel handed Geralt his empty tankard back, “It’s a shit plan. We’re thinking of another one.”

“Really shit.” Lambert agreed, arms crossed tightly over his chest.

“Tell me. We risk losing him unless we act quickly,” Jaskier leaned forward, “Don’t give me the sullen Witcher treatment. I’m far too long in the tooth for it.”

Eskel huffed an irritable sigh. “When you’re hunting a forktail, you tie a goat in the middle of a clearing with a nice bloody steak attached to its side. They’re ravenous bastards. Can’t pass up an easy meal, and-.” He trailed off and shook his head. 

Jaskier had been around Witchers for far too long to miss the euphemism, and Geralt was staring at Eskel in open horror. The bard hummed. “I see,” he tapped his fingers. “Then I will be your goat.”

“Not a chance.” Geralt growled. 

“And that is why we’re thinking of a new plan.” Eskel lifted a hand to rub Geralt’s shoulder.

“No. We go with this one. I may be slightly more advanced in years, but I assure you I am more than capable of attracting the attention of your sorcerer.” Jaskier pushed himself to his feet and swung his lute onto his back. “Up, up. I had a very specific plan for my evening. Sing my new ballad, earn some coin, murder a sorcerer, drink some wine, sleep in a pile of Witcher. I have achieved the first two points, so let us proceed.” And then he was walking out the door, with three Witchers scrambling after him.

They gave up trying to talk him out of it about halfway through Novigrad. 

***

It took only a small handful of coins to convince the innkeeper to allow them to use the storeroom around the back, and buy his silence. It had an easy exit straight onto the street, and they would be able to transport their detainee out through a canal path towards the cliffs. The skies were darkening with a summer storm as they arrived, and now as the Witchers waited in the darkness, they could hear the rain hammering on the tiled roof. None of them were talking, partly as a precaution, but also because they were all irritated at each other for even _considering_ this damned plan, let alone failing to dissuade Jaskier from it and then actually carrying it out. 

The bard would flutter his blue eyes, sing like the most beautiful songbird on the Continent - they had been able to hear him until about half an hour ago - and the sorcerer would gravitate towards him like a… like a forktail to a prime piece of goat. It made them all feel physically sick. None more so than Lambert, who shifted sporadically in the darkness, his heart thundering so loudly that the other two could hear it. The idea of Chester _touching_ his bard clawed at him more viciously than any beast he’d ever encountered. He knew the pain those hands could cause, and Jaskier didn’t have mutagens to protect him.

They didn’t have to wait long for their bard to work his peculiar brand of magic.

“Oh _dear_ , Chester, you are so very eager, aren’t you? Keep those hands up here for now. Wait, wait - ah, no marks, my wife will see -,” Jaskier backed through the door of the storeroom with the sorcerer sucking harsh kisses into his neck, the bard’s hand gripping in his hair to keep his eyes averted until the door swung closed with an audible click. It took all of two seconds for the Witchers to pile in; Geralt shoved a burlap sack over Chester’s head and when the sorcerer lifted his hands, purple light already gathering in his palm, Eskel snapped one of the cuffs around his wrist and then punched him in the stomach for good measure. Lambert had yanked Jaskier away immediately and held onto him tightly even now their prey had been subdued.

“It’s fine, my love. Look, no harm done.” Jaskier tried his best, award-winning smile to cover up the shuddering disgust currently crawling under his skin. It had taken only a handful of songs and a few salacious glances to attract the sorcerer’s attention, and then it was simply a matter of some double entendre, fluttering eyelashes, chaste touches of the hands, and… _well,_ at least he still _had it._ Didn’t mean he wasn’t going to have his three Witchers suck, lick and kiss every particle of the wretch off his skin later.

Even in the gloom of the storeroom, Lambert could see the bruises sucked onto Jaskier’s skin, and the growl rumbled deep in his chest. He released the bard and reached for the sword hilt on his back, but Eskel put out a hand, “Wait. Outside the city. Stick to the plan. We need to get him out of here before someone comes to see where he is.” Lambert’s hand slowly fell away, and he turned on his heel to open the door into the alleyway behind the inn, every muscle coiled tight to control the almost overwhelming urge to spill Chester’s blood immediately in penance.

Chester was groaning audibly inside the hood, retching and gagging every time the dimeritium shifted across his skin. Between them, Geralt and Eskel hauled the sorcerer out of the inn and through the narrow passages that led to the canal. The darkness and the empty streets caused by the storm provided the perfect cover, and they made good time even with the sorcerer tripping and stumbling in the mud. The narrow canal path led out towards the shoreline; the gate would be shut and guarded during times of war, but now only one snoozing militiaman occupied a post on top of the wall, and they slipped by him effortlessly.

The Witchers had chosen a high cliff with a steep, perilous drop into the ocean for their stage. Some might call it dramatic; Eskel called it practical. The sea would consume the body. No evidence. No trail. Even if his friends did come looking for him, his tracks would end with a drop into oblivion. By the time they reached their destination, the thunder was almost ear-splitting and the lightning forked through the sky with vehemence. Pathetic fallacy for the act they were about to commit. Eskel forced the sorcerer onto his knees by the cliff edge and Geralt yanked the hood free. They retreated several metres away to flank Jaskier, who wrapped his arms around his shoulders, only to have two strong arms from either side slip around him to offer their warmth. As he stood sandwiched in the shared heat of Eskel and Geralt, yet again Jaskier tried to fathom how anyone could view Witchers as heartless, unfeeling beasts.

“You have no idea who you’re dealing with.” Chester seethed even before his vision had cleared, and then he locked his gaze on Lambert and his mouth clicked shut. The Witcher stood perfectly still, his head tilted to the side. He wasn’t sure how he expected this to go. With Keira, it had been fairly straightforward. He _knew_ her to a degree - clearly not as much as he thought he had - but her reactions had already been scripted in his head. She had performed them to the letter. Yet _this_ man, he didn’t know. A stranger that had invited himself to Lambert’s body without bothering to learn his name. His nightmares had built him into a fierce, savage predator that raked its claws through his skin and poisoned his mind with bile and hatred. It didn’t tally with the creature kneeling in the mud trying not to shiver with the cold, or throw up due to the toxic metal leaching into his skin.

Lambert dropped to his knees as he had done with Keira, and took Chester’s jaw in one hand to force the eye contact. “Do you remember what you called me as you took what you wanted?”

“Witcher, it wasn’t my idea - ahh,” his jaw creaked under the pressure of Lambert’s grip, the bone threatening to shatter. 

“Say it. Say it now.”

“N - no! This - I’ll give you anything. Anything you want. Enough money to retire on.”

“ _Say it._ ” Lambert’s voice barked with more fury than the thunder rumbling in the heavens.

“F - fuck,” Chester snarled, “Fine, fine. I - I called you my filthy whore. Worthless little bitch.”

“What else?”

“A dirty little slut. That you loved my cock forcing into you - and -.” There wasn’t even an attempt to explain it away like Keira had. He’d known what he was doing. There was no pretence. Was that worse? Lambert wasn’t sure, but this filthy mouth had marked Buttercup, and that was a sin against the gods themselves.

“Hmm.” The Witcher’s grip tightened and he felt the bone between his fingers begin to disintegrate. The sorcerer screamed in pain, but Lambert kept going until loose teeth and blood flowed through his palm. His hand dropped away once it had almost formed a fist, leaving behind the grotesque twist of bone and flesh to hang limply from the hinge of Chester’s skull. His tongue, torn to shreds by shards of bone, flopped free. “You nearly took everything from me. And I almost let you.” Lambert stood and took a step back, head tilted back so that the rain washed down over his face. With the scent of petrichor in the air after a two week-long dry spell, there was a certain purity to the storm. Washing away the last of the contamination from Lambert’s skin. 

He drew the sword from his back, spinning the hilt around his hand. “Silver,” he informed Chester. “For monsters.” 

Jaskier barely saw Lambert move. The downward arc so swift that he could have mistaken the flash of moonlight on silver for a fork of lightning against the sky. Chester’s head fell away from his body as Lambert kicked him over the precipice into the roaring ocean below. The Witcher stared into the abyss long after the body had vanished into the waves, and Jaskier burst from Geralt’s grip because, for a horrifying moment, he thought he saw Lambert teetering forward towards the edge.

The Witcher turned and caught him in one arm, his sword still gripped by his other hand. “Careful, Buttercup. One gust of wind will carry you off.” 

“Don’t. Please stay.”

A quiet huff of laughter, and Lambert loosened his grip enough for Jaskier to pull away and look into his eyes. It was so easy to forget how strong their feral bard was until times such as this; Jaskier had him in an iron grip, one arm latched onto his bicep and another wrapped at his waist. “Well, since you asked so nicely.” 

“It’ll take time, dear heart.”

Lambert looked back over his shoulder to the cliff edge. “I thought that scrubbing them from my skin with you, crushing the words in his mouth, killing him, would make it all better instantly,” his voice cracked at the edges, and he took a deep breath before he continued, “but he’s still in my head. Still alive there.”

“A Witcher I know once told me that sometimes the pain in here,” Jaskier lifted his hand to tap Lambert’s temple, “is harder to overcome than anything else. But you will. You’ve dealt with worse. Watched you do it.”

“Hmm,” Lambert smiled. “Your Witcher sounds wise.”

“Oh, the wisest,” Jaskier grinned. “And the noblest damn steed I’ve ever had.” 

“Is that so?” Lambert turned the sword over in his hand and slipped it deftly back into the scabbard on his back. “Need a lift back into town?”

“Well, if you’re available.” 

They walked away from the cliff edge together, and the two Witchers awaiting them both let out audible sighs of relief. Sword belts passed over to Eskel, Jaskier hopped up onto Lambert’s back and buried his face against his Witcher’s neck. It would take time. Probably a lot. But Jaskier was determined that Lambert would feel loved for every second of it. 

***

The innkeeper at the Golden Sturgeon thought better about complaining as four sodden, irritable men traipsed through his tavern and up the stairs at the back to their room. With the door securely locked at their backs, all four of them shed their clothes and left them in scattered heaps across the floor. Eskel crouched down by the grate to light a fire with the few meagre logs they had been provided, and Geralt distributed the four bottles of mead he'd brought with him from Posada to celebrate the occasion. 

Compared to the close, stuffy nights of recent weeks, this one was almost wintry. It didn’t take long for bodies to begin winding together. Jaskier blamed Eskel. He had his own gravitational pull. Sitting there all big, warm and stupidly attractive. Geralt folded around his back as was his customary place, broad arms big and long enough to encircle him with little effort, and his chin propped over one broad shoulder, while Lambert and Jaskier lounged at varying angles against him.

Cold, rain drenched skin quickly thawed, and Jaskier draped himself over Lambert, who wanted nothing more than to kiss and lap at the livid bruises on his neck. Trying to erase them. He slouched against the Witcher's chest, head lolled to the side in blissful abandon. Eventually, Lambert scooped the bard from the floor, and they curled up together in the very centre of the bed beneath the blankets, too tired to do much more than exchange occasional kisses and stroke soft circles on any patch of skin nearby. _Justice was exhausting._

Geralt tightened his arms around Eskel and lifted his chin so that he could bury his nose into the curve of his neck. It would be another few weeks’ riding back into Kaedwen to meet up with Vesemir, and then they would be splitting up again to continue the season on the Path. Geralt would head back to Nilfgaard, and Eskel probably down through Aedirn and across to Temeria with Jaskier in tow. Their time together was precious and limited. Best make the most of it. Hmm. Fuck. _No one had any right to smell this good._ Geralt dragged his nails over Eskel’s abdomen, fingertips falling into every rut between each muscle, as he lapped a long strip up his neck to his ear. “You owe me an ale.”

“Technically, it was half an al--, mmm.” Eskel’s retort cut off as Geralt’s hand wrapped around the base of his cock and stroked it effortlessly to full hardness. He watched Geralt work down the slope of his chest; callused fingers gripping and pulsating to vary the pressure even as the other hand slipped down his thigh to tease his balls, two fingers pushing a little more firmly behind them until they found the spot that made his breath hitch. “ _Fu--_ I thought I owed you.” He could feel the heat of Geralt’s erection pushing against his back, the base notched into the top of his cleft, hard and hot.

“I’ll take this as down payment.” Growled into his back, before the warmth vanished. Geralt uncurled to his feet and indicated the foot of the bed as he left to root through one of his saddlebags. Eskel sat down on the mattress, leaning back to stroke Lambert’s ankle before it was slowly withdrawn back into cover. Two sets of eyes - one amber, one blue - watched him from their makeshift den of pillows and wool blankets, glittering with identical mischief. As soon as Geralt indicated the bed, they had moved simultaneously to tuck themselves towards the headboard in anticipation. _Why did he suddenly feel entirely outnumbered?_

The distraction was enough for Geralt to gain the upperhand immediately, and Eskel grunted as he was pushed onto his back, mouth taken by a biting kiss. The slide of Geralt’s cock in the crease of his thigh, already oiled and smooth, made him moan and he bucked into the hand that pumped up and down his in demanding strokes. Eskel pulled from the kiss and craned to run his mouth over Geralt’s neck, hands pawing and kneading in an attempt to gain some purchase as one leg lifted to drape over a narrow hip, but Geralt was having none of it. Another low growl, and his wrist was pinned to the bed beside him, Geralt’s mouth pressed to his throat. “Always trying to give, aren’t you? Tonight you’re just going to take it.”

“Yeah?” Eskel squirmed against the grip on his arm and twisted his hips, ready to flip their position, but the Wolf was wise to it; Eskel’s tells were as familiar as the shine of his eyes and the charm in his smile. So Geralt spread his knees to steady his stance and push Eskel’s thighs further apart, leaning forward on the wrist he had in his grasp. The hand between them, still slick with oil, pushed gently over Eskel’s balls and then more firmly over his entrance, circling and teasing. Eskel’s head flopped back in willing defeat. “Fuck, Geralt…”

“Submit?” Geralt murmured, his grin toothy as he slipped the first finger inside, sliding through clenching heat until he was buried to the knuckle.

“ _Every_ time.” The need to have Geralt inside him had grown well beyond desperate in recent weeks. There were only so many mornings Eskel could watch him walk about camp with his morning wood pressing against the ties of his trousers without going feral. He’d almost offered to ride him just outside Rinde - twigs, stones and wandering bandits be damned - but they hadn’t bathed in four days at that point and he wasn’t sure he could do that to himself, let alone Geralt. But after their wash at the beginning of this evening, and the rain just for good measure, he was ready to spread his legs and moan like a gods-damned whore. And Geralt fucking _knew it_ , because he added a second finger and bent both to coax a few out of him straight away, before twisting and scissoring him open just on the sweet side of too rough. “ _Mmph, fuck._ ” 

“You look really good like this,” Geralt teased, rubbing his face into the centre of Eskel’s chest and breathing deeply. “Smell good too.” The sharp tang of arousal, sweat mixed with the lye from his shirt where it had soaked against him in the rain, musky bath salts gifted by Jaskier subtly different as they floated on top of the rich, deep scent that was purely Eskel himself. A scent that settled deep in the chest; masculine, strong, _challenging._ What could be more thrilling than taking something as strong and unbending as Eskel? The School of Bear’s missed opportunity. _And Geralt wanted him now._ Two fingers were nowhere near enough, but he could tell by the needy buck of Eskel’s hips as he drove himself down onto them that he was desperate for something a lot bigger. Geralt lifted his hand away, smirking at the whine that Eskel tried to cover with a grunt, and lined himself up. Of course, giving his dear lover what he wanted _straight away_ was never an option, and he smoothed his head up Eskel’s oiled cleft with an appreciative moan of his own, notching it against the slick hole barely ready for it.

“Stop fucking teasing me.” Eskel growled and pushed up against the hand that gripped his wrist, his legs wrapped at Geralt’s waist and tugging insistently. _Bastard knew what he was doing, look at that fucking grin._ And he tried to earn himself some credit with a kiss, but he wasn’t fucking getting any, and - alright, he got some - no, he got a lot. Eskel moaned into Geralt’s mouth, hips canting eagerly for the stimulation, until finally he felt the burn of the first few inches push inside. Two fingers hadn’t been enough. But it hurt so good. Eskel could take it. Experience, with a sprinkling of Witcher fortitude made the raw ache blindlngly glorious. “Fuck, Geralt - yes - fuck.”

Geralt leaned forward and eased himself in, neglecting immediate pace to enjoy the pressure, head tilted to drink in the breathy moans and gasps that each successive inch earned from deep in Eskel’s chest. Golden eyes wandered over to their two observers. Clearly justice wasn’t _that_ exhausting, because Lambert was plastered up behind Jaskier, hips flush to rear, with one hand nursing the bard’s cock with long strokes from base to tip. Teasing him. Not fast enough for release. Lambert looked every part the cat he was at heart as Jaskier ground and squirmed against him, pleading and whimpering, because the sight of Geralt taking Eskel was one that defied all self control. The way that broad, muscled frame arched so pliantly and needily against Geralt’s body; the bastion of careful control dissected and laid bare into a gasping, shuddering mess. Jaskier had managed to render Eskel breathless on a number of occasions, but Geralt had it down to an art form.

Hips rocking slowly at first, until the tightness of Eskel’s body eased and Geralt found the angle he liked, namely the one that made Eskel arch off the bed and grip his shoulders, his face wrecked. Yeah, _that_ was a good angle. With a careful adjustment, he took Eskel’s cock in his hand and pumped in time with rapid thrusts. At some point he heard Jaskier come with a breathy moan and Lambert’s growled reply as the Witcher curled around his bard to enjoy the scent of his euphoria, but Geralt’s attention was on Eskel; the way his body pulsed and clenched around him, his own reflection in the huge pupils that watched him right back, enamoured and desperate, breathy pants and the moans that escaped despite a valiant attempt to stay quiet.

Eskel seemed to teeter on the edge for an eternity, black hair plastered to his forehead, body tightening and releasing as it resisted its peak - Geralt wasn’t complaining, he would happily pound into Eskel all night if he wanted it, he was fucking beautiful - but he wanted to see that blissed release, and knew something that would give him that last little nudge. Something that would only _ever_ work on Eskel. Hand slowing, Geralt leaned forward and ground deep, whispering ever so softly, a sultry moan “ _Eskel_.” 

_Worked like a fucking charm._ Eskel spilled over Geralt’s fingers, keening, body shuddering and clenching around the final deep, lazy thrusts that Geralt needed to join him with a low, pleased groan. “Bastard…” Eskel breathed near his ear, fingers still kneading at Geralt’s waist, each minute twitch and flex a glorious reminder of the cock buried in his ass.

Geralt chuckled, head tilted to run his tongue up the rough skin of Eskel’s scars. “You love it.” A quiet grunt in reply. _Yes._

Lambert detached himself from the bard and dropped down on his front further down the bed. He studied Eskel’s post-coital glow with interest, dipping his face forward to snuffle at the side of his neck, and press kisses to his shoulder and the side of his face. Smelled of happiness, love and lust. _Fucking heady shit, that._ Usually, he was in his headspace when Eskel was like this, so it was a rare treat. Lambert examined Geralt too, propped up on his elbow, hips still flush with Eskel’s backside. Didn’t want to leave. Fair. Eskel has a good ass. “Quite like seeing you like this.”

“Mmm,” Eskel was only capable of non-commital noises at that precise moment in time, and Lambert smirked, disappearing from view with a final parting kiss. Geralt withdrew gently, guiding Eskel’s legs back to the bed rather than letting them drop, and took a moment to steady himself before grabbing a shirt from the floor to clean off. Jaskier made a strangled noise of protest, and then just flopped back onto the pillows in resignation; it was his chemise. When Geralt looked at him apologetically, drawing the shirt away, “Geralt, it’s not the first time my clothes have been covered in your collective come, and I’m very keen for it not to be the last, so just… mop away.”

Eskel, still barely sentient, managed a breathy chuckle.

***

A couple more weeks of riding later, they arrived in Ban Ard - the _real_ jewel of Kaedwen - to meet Vesemir. Not that Lambert _knew_ about Vesemir until he caught sight of a familiar cob in the stables while tending to Scorpion. He entered the dimly lit inn and his gaze alighted on the old Wolf immediately. Nothing was said as Lambert sat slowly in the remaining seat, but he realised what was happening when he glanced from amber, to gold, to blue and then finally to the parchment yellow of Vesemir’s eyes. “Take it you’re not here for a social call.”

“No, son,” Vesemir said quietly, pushing a mug of ale into Lambert’s hand. “Your brothers sent me a message. Asked me to meet here and talk to you about coming home for the rest of the season.”

“I see,” Lambert cast the _brothers_ in question a baleful glare, and then looked at Jaskier. Did he know about this? Yes, he did. Look at those big, apologetic eyes. Fucking great. He took a swig of ale and considered the tankard for a while before he continued. “And what if I say no?”

“I can’t force you to go anywhere,” Vesemir shrugged. “I can only advise. You have two choices. You come home with me, we have each other for company - now, I know I’m not your first choice - but I am _someone_. You rest, you heal, you help me get some of the damn repairs done that I can only attempt when we’re not under fifty foot of snow. Or, you go back to the Path, and you spend the next few months on your own with just your thoughts. In the wilderness. No space safe enough to give yourself a chance to rebuild. And keep in mind, a distracted Witcher is a dead Witcher.” The silence hung heavily. Lambert wasn’t looking at any of them, but Eskel could see the anger coiling in his shoulders as surely as if he were standing on the table and screaming at the top of his lungs. 

It was Jaskier who finally spoke, his voice soft, “Lambert. We - we don’t think you can’t do it, I _know_ that’s what you’re thinking, and that’s not it,” he reached tentatively across the table, but his fingers fell short and just rested lamely several inches from Lambert’s hand. “But all three of us will worry about you until next winter. Please, be kind to yourself, just… take the season off.”

More silence, but now Lambert was looking at Jaskier. The bard had seen it on that cliff edge. The moment he’d almost followed Chester over. It had seemed so _effortless._ Two steps and then darkness. And that had never been the plan. The feeling had just sprung upon him. Numb, and hollow, and dark. If the others hadn’t been there, he would be somewhere in the Great Ocean by now, forgotten by all but those at Kaer Morhen. And if that happened while he was on the Path… well, it’d be back to the fighting circuit, or a matter of finding a monster to take a big enough bite to finish him off. Simple enough for a Witcher. There was really only one choice he could make. _Should_ make. “Fine. I’ll go home,” he knocked back the rest of the ale in long, loud mouthfuls and then rose to his feet. “Gunna’ get some fresh air.” 

Lambert sat on an old, broken bench in the street, gazing at an overflowing pot of flowers used to brighten the masonry of a nearby wall. He didn’t look up as Eskel lowered himself onto the seat next to him, one arm settling across the back of the bench behind his shoulders. “I know you’re pissed off.”

“Not pissed off.”

Eskel gave him an impatient glance, but continued anyway. “The very fact that you didn’t start throwing furniture and calling us all dickheads in there is enough to indicate that you’re not quite back to yourself yet. Not gunna’ be patronising and say it’s for the best or anything like that,” he paused. “But I am grateful. To you.”

Lambert looked up from his hands. “Why?”

“I would have probably spent the rest of the season following you ‘round. Not because I think you can’t handle yourself,” he lifted his hands briefly, sensing the argument, and then sighed when Lambert slumped. Slowly, he shifted along the bench until their legs touched, his arm dropping down so that the backs of his fingers could stroke across Lambert’s hand. “I just want to hold you tight all the time. It kills me how your mind can make you feel so worthless. And, I worry that without someone to remind you how much you’re loved, you’ll let that voice win.”

“ _Fuck._ ”

“What?”

Lambert looked Eskel dead in the eye. “When you’re near me, I feel like the most valuable thing on the Continent, like fucking gold and jewels and shit,” he glanced away, scrubbed his palm over the back of his head and heaved a sigh, but he looked back. “I love you, you stupid oaf. I’d spend an eternity rattling around Kaer Morhen with Vesemir if you asked me to. You just - don’t fucking baby me. Next time I’ll chop your bollocks off and then Buttercup will be upset.” He slumped into the embrace offered out to him, eyes sliding closed as he took his fill of Eskel’s scent. In a few hours, Geralt would head back to Nilfgaard, Lambert would head into the Blue Mountains with Vesemir and Eskel would return to the Path with Jaskier. Winter couldn’t come quick enough.

Eskel buried his face in the short-cropped hair currently tucked against his shoulder. As far as declarations of love went, it was so very Lambert. And Eskel couldn’t have asked for better. “Love you too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song References
> 
> [Solitude](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NRfHYzi_ZBA%22) Valhalore 4:17
> 
> [Before You Go](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Jtauh8GcxBY) Lewis Capaldi 3:45

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Pick Your Poison](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24296971) by [AwlAfrit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AwlAfrit/pseuds/AwlAfrit)




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